nrMrt 


.ON 


.ILL! 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


i  '' , 

AND    AS   THEY  STOOD  THE  CLKKGYMEX  SLOWLY  CAME  OCT  Of  THE  HOUSE." — [SEE  PAGE  132.} 


THE 


AMERICAN    BARON. 


BY  JAMES  DE  MILLE, 

AUTHOR  OF 

'THE  DODGE  CLUB,"   "THE  CRYPTOGRAM,"  "CORD  AND  CREESE,"  &c 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER    &     BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN  SQUARE. 
1872. 


PROF.  JAMES  DE  MILLE. 


THE  DODGE  CLUB ;  or,  Italy  in  1859.     Illustrated.     8vo,  Paper,  75  cents; 
Cloth,  $i  25. 

CORD  AND    CREESE.      A   Novel.      Illustrated.      8vo,  Paper,  75    cents-, 
Cloth,  $i  25. 

THE    CRYPTOGRAM.     A  Novel.     Illustrated.     8vo,  Paper,  $i  50  ;   Cloth, 

$2   00. 

THE   AMERICAN  BARON.     A  Novel.     Illustrated.     8vo,  Paper. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

Senf  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871,  by 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS, 
In  the  Office   of  the    Librarian   of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"P.VEDON,  MEES." 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    AVALANCHE. 

SOMEWHAT  less  than  a  hundred  years  ago 
a  party  of  travelers  might  have  been  seen 
crossing  over  the  Simplon  Road,  en  route  for  It 
aly.  They  had  been  detained  at  Brieg  by  re 
ports  that  the  road  was  impassable ;  and,  as  it 
was  the  month  of  March,  the  prospect  of  snow 
and  storms  and  avalanches  was  sufficient  to 
make  them  hesitate.  At  length  the  road  had 
been  reopened,  and  they  were  informed  that 
the  journey  might  be  made  on  sleds. 

Unwilling  to  wait  at  Brieg,  and  equally  un 
willing  to  make  a  detour  so  as  to  take  the  rail 
road,  the  party  decided  to  go  on.  They  were 
informed  that  they  could  go  on  wheels  as  far 
as  the  line  of  snow,  but  that  afterward  their  ac 
commodations  would  not  be  so  comfortable  as 
they  might  desire.  The  road  had  been  cleared 
for  only  a  few  feet ;  the  snow  was  deep ;  the 
sleds  were  rude;  and  progress  would  bejsJow. 


These  statements,  however,  did  not  shake  the 
resolution  of  the  party ;  and  the  end  of  it  was 
that  they  determined  to  go  on,  and  cross  the 
mountain  if  it  were  possible. 

On  leaving  Brieg  the  road  began  to  ascend 
with  a  very  slight  incline,  winding  around  in 
an  intricate  sort  of  way,  sometimes  crossing 
deep  gullies,  at  other  times  piercing  the  hill 
side  in  long  dark  tunnels ;  but  amidst  all  these 
windings  ever  ascending,  so  that  every  step 
took  them  higher  and  higher  above  the  little 
valley  where  Brieg  lay.  The  party  saw  also 
that  every  step  brought  them  steadily  nearer 
to  the  line  of  snow ;  and  at  length  they  found 
the  road  covered  with  a  thin  white  layer.  Over 
this  they  rolled,  and  though  the  snow  became 
deeper  with  every  furlong  of  their  progress,  yet 
they  encountered  but  little  actual  difficulty  un 
til  they  approached  the  first  station  where  the 
horses  were  to  be  changed.  Here  they  came 
to  a  deep  drift.  Through  this  a  pathway  had 
been  cleared,  so  that  there  was  no  difficulty 
about  going  through  ;  but  the  sight  of  this 
served  to  show  them  what  might  be  expect 
ed  further  on,  and  to  fill  them  all  with  grave 
doubts  as  to  the  practicability  of  a  journey 
which  was  thus  interrupted  so  early. 

On  reaching  the  station  these  doubts  were 
confirmed.  "  They  were  informed  that  the  road 
had  been  cleared  for  sleds  on  the  preceding 
day,  but  that  on  the  previous  night  fresh  snow 
had  fallen,  and  in  such  quantities  that  the  road 
would  have  to  be  cleared  afresh.  The  worst 
of  it  was  that  there  was  every  probability  of 
new  snow-storms,  which  would  cover  the  road 
still  deeper,  and  once  more  obliterate  the  track. 
This  led  to  a  fresh  debate  about  the  journey  ; 
but  they  were  all  unwilling  to  turn  back.  Only 
a  few  miles  separated  them  from  Domo  d'Os- 
sola,  and  they  were  assured  that,  if  no  fresh 
snow  should  fall,  they  would  be  able  to  start 
on  the  following  morning.  This  last  assur 
ance  once  more  confirmed  their  wavering  reso 
lution,  and  they  concluded  to  wait  at  the  sta 
tion. 

For  the  remainder  of  that  day  they  waited  at 
the  little  way-side  inn,  amusing  themselves  with 
looking  out  upon  their  surroundings.  They 
were  environed  by  a  scene  of  universal  white. 
Above  them  towered  vast  Alpine  summits, 
where  the  wild  wind  blew,  sweeping  the  snow- 


I.  }vr,eaths  into  the  air. 


In  front  was  a  deep  ra- 


B 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


vine,  at  the  bottom  of  which  there  ran  a  tor 
rent  that  foamed  and  tossed  over  rocks  and 
boulders.  It  was  not  possible  to  take  a  walk 
to  any  distance.  Their  boots  were  made  for 
lighter  purposes  than  plunging  through  snow 
drifts  ;  and  so  they  were  forced  to  remain  in 
doors,  and  pass  the  time  as  best  they  could. 

On  the  following  morning  they  found  every 
thing  in  readiness  for  a  start.  In  front  of  the 
inn  they  saw  five  sleds  of  that  kind  which  is 
universally  used  in  the  northern  part  of  Amer 
ica.  Each  sled  was  of  the  rudest  possible  con 
struction,  and  was  drawn  by  one  horse  ;  straw 
was  spread  over  the  sled,  upon  which  fur 
robes  and  blankets  were  flung.  The  party 
was  distributed  among  these  sleds,  so  that 
each  one  should  have  as  light  a  load  as  possi 
ble,  while  one  of  the  rude  vehicles  carried  the 
luggage. 

Thus  arranged,  they  all  started  off.  And 
now,  since  they  are  all  fairly  under  way,  I  pro 
pose  to  introduce  them,  individually  and  col 
lectively,  to  my  very  good  friend  the  reader. 

First  of  all  I  must  mention  the  fact  that  the 
party  consisted  chiefly  of  ladies  and  their  at 
tendants. 

Of  these  the  most  prominent  was  a  slim,  tall, 
elderly  lady,  with  large,  dark,  soft  eyes,  that 
spoke  of  a  vanished  youth  and  beauty  from  her 
heavily  wrinkled  face.  She  was  the  Dowager 
Lady  Dalrymple,  and  acted  toward  the  rest  of 
the  party  in  the  multifarious  capacity  of  chape 
ron,  general,  courier,  guide,  philosopher,  friend, 
and  Mentor. 

Next  came  Mrs.  Willoughby,  a  widow  of 
great  beauty  and  fascination,  a  brunette,  good- 
natured,  clever,  and  shrewd.  I  might  here 
pause,  and  go  into  no  end  of  raptures  on  the 
various  qualities  of  this  lady's  character ;  but, 
on  the  whole,  I  think  I'd  better  not,  as  they 
will  be  sufficiently  apparent  before  the  end  of 
this  story  is  reached. 

Then  there  was  Miss  Minnie  Fay,  sister  to 
Mrs.  Willoughby,  and  utterly  unlike  her  in  ev 
ery  respect.  Minnie  was  a  blonde,  with  blue 
eyes,  golden  hair  cut  short  and  clustering  about 
her  little  head,  little  bit  of  a  mouth,  with  very 
red,  plump  lips,  and  very  white  teeth.  Minnie 
was  very  small,  and  very  elegant  in  shape,  in 
gesture,  in  dress,  in  every  attitude  and  every 
movement.  The  most  striking  thing  about 
her,  however,  was  the  expression  of  her  eyes 
and  her  face.  There  was  about  her  brow  the 
glory  of  perfect  innocence.  Her  eyes  had  a 
glance  of  unfathomable  melancholy,  mingled 
with  childlike  trust  in  the  particular  person 
upon  whom  her  gaze  was  fastened.  Minnie 
was  considered  by  all  her  friends  as  a  child — 
was  treated  as  a  child — humored,  petted,  coax 
ed,  indulged,  and  talked  to  as  a  child.  Min 
nie,  on  her  part,  thought,  spoke,  lived,  moved, 
and  acted  as  a  child.  She  fretted,  she  teased, 
she  pouted,  she  cried,  she  did  every  thing  as  a 
child  does ;  and  thus  carried  up  to  the  age  of 
eighteen  the  bloom  and  charm  of  eight. 

The  two  sisters  were  nieces  of  the  Dowager 


Lady  Dalrymple.  Another  niece  also  accom 
panied  them,  who  was  a  cousin  of  the  two  sis 
ters.  This  was  Miss  Ethel  Orne,  a  young  lady 
who  had  flourished  through  a  London  season, 
and  had  refused  any  number  of  brilliant  offers. 
She  was  a  brunette,  with  most  wonderful  dark 
eyes,  figure  of  perfect  grace,  and  an  expression 
of  grave  self-poise  that  awed  the  butterflies  of 
fashion,  but  offered  an  irresistible  attraction  to 
people  of  sense,  intellect,  intelligence,  esprit, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing — like  you  and  me,  my 
boy. 

I  am  taking  up  too  much  time  and  antici 
pating  somewhat,  I  fear,  by  these  descriptions ; 
so  let  us  drop  Miss  Ethel. 

These  ladies  being  thus  all  related  formed  a 
family  party,  and  had  made  the  journey  thus 
far  on  the  best  of  terms,  without  any  other  es 
cort  than  that  which  was  afforded  by  their 
chaperon,  general,  courier,  guide,  philosopher, 
friend,  and  Mentor — the  Dowager  Lady  Dal 
rymple. 

The  party  was  enlarged  by  the  presence  of 
four  maids  and  a  foreign  gentleman.  This  last- 
mentioned  personage  was  small  in  stature,  with 
a  very  handsome  face  and  very  brilliant  eyes. 
His  frame,  though  slight,  was  sinewy  and  well 
knit,  and  he  looked  like  an  Italian.  He  had 
come  on  alone,  and  had  passed  the  night  at 
the  station-house. 

A  track  about  six  feet  wide  had  been  cut  out 
through  the  snow,  and  over  this  they  passed. 
The  snow  was  soft,  and  the  horses  sank  deep, 
so  that  progress  was  slow.  Nor  was  the  jour 
ney  without  the  excitement  of  apparent  dan 
ger.  At  times  before  them  and  behind  them 
there  would  come  a  low,  rumbling  sound,  and 
they  would  see  a  mass  of  snow  and  ice  rushing 
down  some  neighboring  slope.  Some  of  these 
fell  on  the  road,  and  more  than  once  they  had 
to  quit  their  sleds  and  wait  for  the  drivers  to 
get  them  over  the  heaps  that  had  been  formed 
across  their  path.  Fortunately,  however,  none 
of  these  came  near  them ;  and  Minnie  Fay,  who 
at  first  had  screamed  at  intervals  of  about  five 
minutes,  gradually  gained  confidence,  and  at 
length  changed  her  mood  so  completely  that  she 
laughed  and  clapped  her  little  hands  whenever 
she  saw  the  rush  of  snow  and  ice.  Thus  slow 
ly,  yet  in  safety,  they  pushed  onward,  and  at 
length  reached  the  little  village  of  Simplon. 
Here  they  waited  an  hour  to  warm  themselves, 
lunch,  and  change  horses.  At  the  end  of  that 
time  they  set  out  afresh,  and  once  more  they 
were  on  their  winding  way. 

They  had  now  the  gratification  of  finding  that 
they  were  descending  the  slope,  and  of  knowing 
that  this  descent  took  them  every  minute  fur 
ther  from  the  regions  of  snow,  and  nearer  to 
the  sunny  plains  of  Italy.  Minnie  in  particular 
gave  utterance  to  her  delight :  and  now,  having 
lost  every  particle  of  fear,  she  begged  to  be  al 
lowed  to  drive  in  the  foremost  sled.  Ethel  had 
been  in  it  thus  far,  but  she  willingly  changed 
places  with  Minnie,  and  thus  the  descent  was 
made. 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


g 


The  sleds  and  their  occupants  were  now  ar 
ranged  in  the  following  order  : 

First,  Minnie  Fay  alone  with  the  driver. 

Second,  Mrs.  Willoughby  and  Ethel. 

Third,  the  Dowager  and  her  maid. 

Fourth,  the  three  other  maids. 

Fifth,  the  luggage. 

After  these  five  sleds,  containing  our  party, 
came  another  with  the  foreign  gentleman. 

Each  of  these  sleds  had  a  driver  to  itself. 

In  this  order  the  party  went,  until  at  length 
they  came  to  the  Gorge  of  Gondo.  This  is  a 
narrow  valley,  the  sides  of  which  rise  up  very 
abruptly,  and  in  some  places  precipitously,  to  a 
great  height.  At  the  bottom  flows  a  furious 
torrent,  which  boils  and  foams  and  roars  as 
it  forces  its  impetuous  way  onward  over  fallen 
masses  of  rock  and  trees  and  boulders,  at  one 
time  gathering  into  still  pools,  at  other  times 
roaring  into  cataracts.  Their  road  had  been 
cut  out  on  the  side  of  the  mountain,  and  the 
path  had  been  cleared  away  here  many  feet 
above  the  buried  road ;  and  as  they  wound 
along  the  slope  they  could  look  up  at  the  stu 
pendous  heights  above  them,  and  down  at  the 
abyss  beneath  them,  whose  white  snow-cover 
ing  was  marked  at  the  bottom  by  the  black 
line  of  the  roaring  torrent.  The  smooth  slope 
of  snow  ran  down  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach 
at  a  steep  angle,  filling  up  all  crevices,  with 
here  and  there  a  projecting  rock  or  a  dark 
clump  of  trees  to  break  its  surface. 

The  road  was  far  beneath  them.  The  drivers 
had  informed  them  that  it  was  forty  feet  deep 
at  the  top  of  the  pass,  and  that  its  depth  here 
was  over  thirty.  Long  poles  which  were  in 
serted  in  the  snow  projected  above  its  surface, 
and  served  to  mark  where  the  road  ran. 

Here,  then,  they  drove  along,  feeling  wearied 
with  the  length  of  the  way,  impatient  at  the 
slowness  of  their  progress,  and  eager  to  reach 
their  journey's  end.  But  little  was  said.  All 
had  talked  till  all  were  tired  out.  Even  Min 
nie  Fay,  who  at  first  had  evinced  great  enthu 
siasm  on  finding  herself  leading  the  way,  and 
had  kept  turning  back  constantly  to  address 
remarks  to  her  friends,  had  at  length  subsided, 
and  had  rolled  herself  up  more  closely  in  her 
furs,  and  heaped  the  straw  higher  about  her 
little  feet. 

Suddenly,  before  them,  and  above  them,  and 
behind  them,  and  all  around  them,  there  arose 
a  deep,  low,  dull,  rushing  sound,  which  seemed 
as  if  all  the  snow  on  the  slope  was  moving. 
Their  ears  had  by  this  time  become  sufficiently 
well  acquainted  with  the  peculiar  sound  of  the 
mshing  snow-masses  to  know  that  this  was  the 
noise  that  heralded  their  progress,  and  to  feel 
sure  that  this  was  an  avalanche  of  no  common 
size.  Yes,  this  was  an  avalanche,  and  every 
one  heard  it;  but  no  one  could  tell  where  it 
was  moving,  or  whether  it  was  near  or  far,  or 
whether  it  was  before  or  behind.  They  only 
knew  that  it  was  somewhere  along  the  slope 
which  they  were  traversing. 

A  warning  cry  came  from  the  foremost  driver. 


He  looked  back,  and  his  face  was  as  pale  as 
death.  He  waved  his  hands  above  him,  and 
then  shouting  for  the  others  to  follow,  he  whipped 
up  his  horse  furiously.  The  animal  plunged 
into  the  snow,  and  tossed  and  floundered  and 
made  a  rush  onward. 

But  the  other  drivers  held  back,  and,  instead 
of  following,  shouted  to  the  first  driver  to  stop, 
and  cried  to  the  passengers  to  hold  on.  Not  a 
cry  of  fear  escaped  from  any  one  of  the  ladies. 
All  did  as  they  were  directed,  and  grasped  the 
stakes  of  their  sleds,  looking  up  at  the  slope 
with  white  lips,  and  expectation  of  horror  in 
their  eyes,  watching  for  the  avalanche. 

And  down  it  came,  a  vast  mass  of  snow  and 
ice — down  it  came,  irresistibly,  tremendously, 
with  a  force  that  nothing  could  withstand.  All 
eyes  watched  its  progress  in  the  silence  of  utter 
and  helpless  terror.  It  came.  It  struck.  All 
the  sleds  in  the  rear  escaped,  but  Minnie's  sled 
lay  in  the  course  of  the  falling  mass.  The 
driver  had  madly  rushed  into  the  very  midst 
of  the  danger  which  he  sought  to  avoid.  A 
scream  from  Minnie  and  a  cry  of  despair  from 
the  driver  burst  upon  the  ears  of  the  horrified 
listeners,  and  the  sled  that  bore  them,  buried 
in  the  snow,  went  over  the  edge  of  the  slope, 
and  downward  to  the  abyss. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE   PERILOUS   DESCENT. 

THE  shriek  of  Minnie  and  the  driver's  cry 
of  despair  were  both  stopped  abruptly  by  the 
rush  of  snow,  and  were  smothered  in  the  heap 
under  which  they  were  buried.  The  whole 
party  stood  paralyzed,  gazing  stupidly  down 
ward  where  the  avalanche  was  hurrying  on  to 
the  abyss,  bearing  with  it  the  ill-fated  Minnie. 
The  descent  was  a  slope  of  smooth  snow,  which 
went  down  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees  for 
at  least  a  thousand  feet.  At  that  point  there 
seemed  to  be  a  precipice.  As  their  aching 
eyes  watched  the  falling  mass  they  saw  it  ap 
proach  this  place,  and  then  as  it  came  near  the 
whole  avalanche  seemed  to  divide  as  though  it 
had  been  severed  by  some  projecting  rock.  It 
divided  thus,  and  went  to  ruin ;  while  in  the 
midst  of  the  ruin  they  saw  the  sled,  looking  like 
a  helpless  boat  in  the  midst  of  foaming  break 
ers.  So,  like  such  a  helpless  boat,  it  was  dashed 
forward,  and  shot  out  of  sight  over  the  preci 
pice. 

Whither  had  it  gone  ?  Into  what  abyss  had 
it  fallen?  What  lay  beneath  that  point  over 
which  it  had  been  thrown  ?  Was  it  the  fierce 
torrent  that  rolled  there,  or  were  there  black 
rocks  and  sharp  crags  lying  at  the  foot  of  the 
awful  precipice  ?  Such  were  the  questions 
which  flashed  through  every  mind,  and  deep 
ened  the  universal  horror  into  universal  de 
spair. 

In  the  midst  of  this  general  dismay  Ethel 
was  the  first  to  speak  and  to  act.  She  started 


10 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


to  her  feet,  and  looking  back,  called  in  a  loud 
voice : 

"  Go  down  after  her !  A  thousand  pounds 
to  the  man  who  saves  her !  Quick !" 

At  this  the  drivers  came  forward.  None  of 
them  could  understand  English,  and  so  had  not 
comprehended  her  offer;  but  they  saw  by  her 
gestures  what  she  wanted.  They,  however,  did 
not  seem  inclined  to  act.  They  pointed  down, 
and  pointed  up,  and  shook  their  heads,  and  jab 
bered  some  strange,  unintelligible  patois. 

"Cowards!"  cried  Ethel,  "to  leave  a  young 
girl  to  die.  I  will  go  down  myself." 

And  then,  just  as  she  was,  she  stepped  from 
the  sled,  and  paused  for  a  moment,  looking 
down  the  slope  as  though  selecting  a  place. 
Lady  Dalrymple  and  Mrs.  Willoughby  scream 
ed  to  her  to  come  back,  and  the  drivers  sur 
rounded  her  with  wild  gesticulations.  To  all 
this  she  paid  no  attention  whatever,  and  would 
certainly  have  gone  down  in  another  moment 
had  not  a  hand  been  laid  on  her  arm,  and  a 
voice  close  by  her  said,  with  a  strong  foreign 
accent, 

"Mees!" 

She  turned  at  once. 

It  was  the  foreign  gentleman  who  had  been 
driving  behind  the  party.  He  had  come  up 
and  had  just  reached  the  place.  He  now  stood 
before  her  with  his  hat  in  one  hand  and  the 
other  hand  on  his  heart. 

"  Pardon,  mees,"  he  said,  with  a  bow.  "  Eet 
is  too  periloss.  I  sail  go  down  eef  you  'low  me 
to  mak  ze  attemp." 

"Oh,  monsieur,"  cried  Ethel,  "save  her  if 
you  can!" 

"  Do  not  fear.  Be  calm.  I  sail  go  down. 
Nevare  mine." 

The  stranger  now  turned  to  the  drivers,  and 
spoke  to  them  in  their  own  language.  They  all 
obeyed  at  once.  He  was  giving  them  explicit 
directions  in  a  way  that  showed  a  perfect  com 
mand  of  the  situation.  It  now  appeared  that 
each  sled  had  a  coil  of  rope,  which  was  evident 
ly  supplied  from  an  apprehension  of  some  such 
accident  as  this.  Hastily  yet  dextrously  the 
foreign  gentleman  took  one  of  these  coils,  and 
then  binding  a  blanket  around  his  waist,  he 
passed  the  rope  around  this,  so  that  it  would 
press  against  the  blanket  without  cutting  h.im. 
Having  secured  this  tightly,  he  gave  some  fur 
ther  directions  to  the  drivers,  and  then  prepared 
to  go  down. 

Hitherto  the  drivers  had  acted  in  sullen  sub 
mission  rather  than  with  ready  acquiescence. 
They  were  evidently  afraid  of  another  ava 
lanche  ;  and  the  frequent  glances  which  they 
threw  at  the  slope  above  them  plainly  showed 
that  they  expected  this  snow  to  follow  the  ex 
ample  of  the  other.  In  spite  of  themselves  an 
expression  of  this  fear  escaped  them,  and  came 
to  the  ears  of  the  foreign  gentleman.  He 
turned  at  once  on  the  brink  of  the  descent,  and 
burst  into  a  torrent  of  invective  against  them. 
The  ladies  could  not  understand  him,  but  they 
could  perceive  that  he  was  uttering  threats, 


and  that  the  men  quailed  before  him.  He  did 
not  waste  any  time,  however.  After  reducing 
the  men  to  a  state  of  sulky  submission,  he 
turned  once  more  and  began  the  descent. 

As  he  went  down  the  rope  was  held  by  the 
men,  who  allowed  it  to  pass  through  their  hands 
so  as  to  steady  his  descent.  The  task  before 
the  adventurer  was  one  of  no  common  difficulty. 
The  snow  was  soft,  and  at  every  step  he  sank 
in  at  least  to  his  knees.  Frequently  he  came 
to  treacherous  places,  where  he  sank  down  above 
his  waist,  and  was  only  able  to  scramble  out 
with  difficulty.  But  the  rope  sustained  him ; 
and  as  his  progress  was  downward,  he  succeed 
ed  in  moving  with  some  rapidity  toward  his 
destination.  The  ladies  on  the  height  above 
sat  in  perfect  silence,  watching  the  progress  of 
the  man  who  was  thus  descending  with  his  life 
in  his  hand  to  seek  and  to  save  their  lost  com 
panion,  and  in  the  intensity  of  their  anxiety 
forgot  utterly  about  any  danger  to  themselves, 
though  from  time  to  time  there  arose  the  well- 
known  sound  of  sliding  masses,  not  so  far  away 
but  that  under  other  circumstances  of  less  anx 
iety  it  might  have  filled  them  with  alarm.  But 
now  there  was  no  alarm  for  themselves. 

And  now  the  stranger  was  far  down,  and  the 
coil  of  rope  was  well-nigh  exhausted.  But  this 
had  been  prepared  for,  and  the  drivers  fastened 
this  rope  to  another  coil,  and  after  a  time  be 
gan  to  let  out  that  one  also. 

Farther  and  farther  down  the  descent  went 
on.  They  saw  the  stranger  pursuing  his  way 
still  with  unfaltering  resolution  ;  and  they  sent 
after  him  all  their  hearts  and  all  their  prayers. 
At  last  he  plunged  down  almost  out  of  sight, 
but  the  next  moment  he  emerged,  and  then,  aft 
er  a  few  leaps,  they  saw  that  he  had  gained  the 
place  where  lay  the  ruins  of  the  shattered  ava 
lanche.  Over  this  he  walked,  sometimes  sink 
ing,  at  other  times  running  and  leaping,  until 
at  length  he  came  to  the  precipice  over  which 
the  sled  had  been  flung. 

And  now  the  suspense  of  the  ladies  became 
terrible.  This  was  the  critical  moment.  Al 
ready  his  eyes  could  look  down  upon  the  mys 
tery  that  lay  beneath  that  precipice.  And 
what  lay  revealed  there?  Did  his  eyes  en 
counter  a  spectacle  of  horror?  Did  they  gaze 
down  into  the  inaccessible  depths  of  some  hid 
eous  abyss?  Did  they  see  those  jagged  rocks, 
those  sharp  crags,  those  giant  boulders,  those 
roaring  billows,  which,  in  their  imaginations, 
had  drawn  down  their  lost  companion  to  de 
struction  ?  Such  conjectures  were  too  terri 
ble.  Their  breath  failed  them,  and  their  hearts 
for  a  time  almost  ceased  to  beat  as  they  sat 
there,  overcome  by  such  dread  thoughts  as 
these. 

Suddenly  a  cry  of  delight  escaped  Ethel. 
She  was  kneeling  down  beside  Lady  Dalrym 
ple  and  Mrs.  Willoughby,  with  her  eyes  staring 
from  her  pallid  face,  when  she  saw  the  stran 
ger  turn  and  look  up.  He  took  off  his  hat, 
and  waved  it  two  or  three  times.  Then  he 
beckoned  to  the  drivers.  Then  he  sat  down 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


11 


and  prepared  to  let  himself  over  the  precipice. 
This  incident  inspired  hope.  It  did  more.  It 
gave  a  moment's  confidence,  and  the  certainty 
that  all  was  not  lost.  They  looked  at  each 
other,  and  wept  tears  of  joy.  But  soon  that 
momentary  hope  vanished,  and  uncertainty  re 
turned.  After  all,  what  did  the  stranger's  ges 
ture  mean  ?  He  might  have  seen  her — but  how  ? 
He  might  reach  her.,  but  would  she  be  safe 
from  harm?  Could  such  a  thing  be  hoped 
for  ?  Would  she  not,  rather,  be  all  marred  and 
mutilated?  Dared  they  hope  for  any  thing 
better  ?  They  dared  not.  And  now  they  sat 
once  more,  as  sad  as  before,  and  their  short 
lived  gleam  of  hope  faded  away. 

They  saw  the  stranger  go  over  the  preci 
pice. 

Then  he  disappeared. 

The  rope  was  let  out  for  a  little  distance, 
and  then  stopped.  Theu  more  went  out.  Then 
it  stopped  again. 

The  rope  now  lay  quite  loose.  There  was 
no  tension. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  this  ?  Was  he 
clinging  to  the  side  of  the  precipice  ?  Impossi 
ble.  It  looked  rather  as  though  he  had  reached 
some  place  where  he  was  free  to  move,  and 
had  no  further  need  of  descent.  And  it  seemed 
as  though  the  precipice  might  not  be  so  deep 
or  so  fearful  as  they  had  supposed. 

In  a  short  time  their  eyes  were  greeted  by 
the  appearance  of  the  stranger  above  the  preci 
pice.  He  waved  his  hat  again.  Then  he  made 
some  gestures,  and  detached  the  rope  from  his 
person.  The  drivers  understood  him  as  if  this 
had  been  preconcerted.  Two  of  them  instant 
ly  unharnessed  the  horse  fro.m  one  of  the  sleds, 
while  the  others  pulled  up  the  rope  which  the 
stranger  had  cast  off.  Then  the  latter  disap 
peared  once  more  behind  the  precipice.  The 
ladies  watched  now  in  deep  suspense;  inclin 
ing  to  hope,  yet  dreading  the  worst.  They 
saw  the  drivers  fasten  the  rope  to  the  sled,  and 
let  it  down  the  slope.  It  was  light,  and  the 
runners  were  wide.  It  did  not  sink  much,  but 
slid  down  quite  rapidly.  Once  or  twice  it 
stuck,  but  by  jerking  it  back  it  was  detached, 
and  went  on  as  before.  At  last  it  reached  the 
precipice  at  a  point  not  more  than  a  hundred 
feet  from  where  the  stranger  had  last  ap 
peared. 

And  now  as  they  sat  there,  reduced  once 
more  to  the  uttermost  extremity  of  suspense, 
they  saw  a  sight  which  sent  a  thrill  of  rapture 
through  their  aching  heaits.  They  saw  the 
stranger  come  slowly  above  the  precipice,  and 
then  stop,  and  stoop,  and  look  back.  Then 
they  saw — oh,  Heavens !  who  was  that  ?  Was 
not  that  her  red  hood — and  that  figure  who 
thus  slowly  emerged  from  behind  the  edge  of 
the  precipice  which  had  so  long  concealed  her 
— that  figure !  Was  it  possible  ?  Not  dead — 
not  mangled,  but  living,  moving,  and,  yes — 
wonder  of  wonders — scaling  a  precipice!  Could 
it  be !  Oh  joy !  Oh  bliss  !  Oh  revulsion  from 
despj-.ir !  The  ladies  trembled  and  shivered, 


and  laughed  and  sobbed  convulsively,  and  wept 
in  one  another's  arms  by  turns. 

As  far  as  they  could  see  through  the  tears 
that  dimmed  their  eyes,  Minnie  could  not  be 
much  injured.  She  moved  quite  lightly  over 
the  snow,  as  the  stranger  led  her  toward  the 
sled ;  only  sinking  once  or  twice,  and  then  ex 
tricating  herself  even  more  readily  than  her 
companion.  At  last  she  reached  the  sled,  and 
the  stranger,  taking  off  the  blanket  that  he  had 
worn  under  the  rope,  threw  it  over  her  shoul 
ders. 

Then  he  signaled  to  the  men  above,  and 
they  began  to  pull  up  the  sled.  The  stranger 
climbed  up  after  it  through  the  deep  snow, 
walking  behind  it  for  some  distance.  At  last 
he  made  a  despairing  gesture  to  the  men,  and 
sank  down. 

The  men  looked  bewildered,  and  stopped 
pulling. 

The  stranger  started  up,  and  waved  his 
hands  impatiently,  pointing  to  Minnie. 

The  drivers  began  to  pull  once  more  at  the 
sled,  and  the  stranger  once  more  sank  exhaust 
ed  in  the  snow. 

At  this  Ethel  started  up. 

"That  noble  soul!"  she  cried;  "that  gen 
erous  heart!  See!  he  is  saving  Minnie,  and 
sitting  down  to  die  in  the  snow  !" 

She  sprang  toward  the  men,  and  endeavor 
ed  to  make  them  do  something.  By,  her  ges 
tures  she  tried  to  get  two  of  the  men  to  pull  at 
the  sled,  and  the  third  man  to  let  the  fourth 
man  down  with  a  rope  to  the  stranger.  The 
men  refused ;  but  at  the  offer  of  her  purse, 
which  was  well  filled  with  gold,  they  consented. 
Two  of  them  then  pulled  at  the  sled,  and  num 
ber  four  bound  the  rope  about  him,  and  went 
down,  while  number  three  held  the  rope.  He 
went  down  without  difficulty,  and  reached  the 
stranger.  By  this  time  Minnie  had  been  drawn 
to  the  top,  and  was  clasped  in  the  arms  of  her 
friends. 

But  nqjv  the  strength  and  the  sense  which 
had  been  so  wonderfully  maintained  gave  wav 
utterly  ;  and  no  sooner  did  she  find  herself  safe 
than  she  fell  down  unconscious. 

They  drew  her  to  a  sled,  and  tenderly  laid 
her  on  the  straw,  and  lovingly  and  gently  they 
tried,  to  restore  her,  and  call  her  back  to  con 
sciousness.  But  for  a  long  time  their  efforts 
were  of  no  avail. 

She  lay  there  a  picture  of  perfect  loveliness, 
as  beautiful  as  a  dream — like  some  child-angel. 
Her  hair,  frosted  with  snow  dust,  clustered  in 
golden  curls  over  her  fair  white  brow ;  her  lit 
tle  hands  were  folded  meekly  over  her  breast ; 
her  sweet  lips  were  parted,  and  disclosed  the 
pearly  teeth ;  the  gentle  eyes  no  longer  looked 
forth  with  their  piteous  expression  of  mute 
appeal ;  and  her  hearing  was  deaf  to  the 
words  of  love  and  pity  that  were  lavished  upon 
her. 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    CHILD-ANGEL   AND   HER   WOES. 

MRS  .  WILLOUGHBY  was  in  her  room  at  the 
hotel  in  Milan,  when  the  door  opened,  and  Min 
nie  came  in.      She  looked  around  the  room, 
drew  a  long  breath,  then  locked  the  door,  and 
flinging  herself  upon  a  sofa,  she  reclined  there 
in  silence  for  some  time,  looking  hard  at  the 
ceiling.     Mrs.  Willoughby  looked  a  little  sur 
prised  at  first ;  but  after  waiting  a  few  moments 
for  Minnie  to  say  something,  resumed  her  read 
ing,  which  had  been  interrupted. 
'Kitty,"  said  Minnie  at  last. 
'  What  ?"  said  her  sister,  looking  up. 
'I  think  you're  horrid." 
'  Why,  what's  the  matter  ?" 
'  Why,  because  when  you  see  and  know  that 
I'm  dying  to  speak  to  you,  you  go  on  reading 
that  wretched  book." 

"Why,  Minnie  darling,"said  Mrs.  Willough 
by,  "  how  in  the  world  was  I  to  know  that  you 
wanted  to  speak  to  me  ?" 

"  You  might  have  known,"  said  Minnie,  with 
a  pout — "you  saw  me  look  all  round,  and  lock 
the  door ;  and  you  saw  how  worried  I  looked, 
and  I  think  it  a  shame,  and  I've  a  great  mind 
not  to  tell  you  any  thing  about  it." 

"About  it — what  itf  and  Mrs.  Willough 
by  put  down  her  book,  and  regarded  her  sister 
with  some  curiosity. 

"  I've  a  great  mind  not  to  tell  you,  but  I 
can't  help  it.  Besides,  I'm  dying  to  ask  your 
advice.  I  don't  know  what  to  do ;  and  I  wish 
I  was  dead — there ! " 

"My  poor  Minnie!  what  is  the  matter? 
You're  so  incoherent. " 

"Well,  Kitty,  it's  all  my  accident." 

"Your  accident!" 

"  Yes ;  on  the  Alps,  yon  know." 

"  What !  You  haven't  received  any  serious 
injury,  have  you?"  asked  Mrs.  Willoughby, 
with  some  alarm. 

"Oh!  I  don't  mean  that;  but  I'll  tell  you 
what  I  mean;"  and  here  Minnie  got  up  from 
her  reclining  position,  and  allowed  her  little  feet 
to  touch  the  carpet,  while  she  fastened  her  great, 
fond,  pleading,  piteous  eyes  upon  her  sister. 

"It's  the  Count,  you  know,"  said  she. 

"The  Count!"  repeated  Mrs.  Willoughby, 
somewhat  dryly.  "  Well  ?" 

"  Well — don't  you  know  what  I  mean  ?  Oh, 
how  stupid  you  are !" 

"I  really  can  not  imagine." 

"Well  —  he — he  —  he  pro — proposed,  you 
know." 

"Proposed!"  cried  the  other,  in  a  voice  of 
dismay. 

"Now,  Kitty,  if  yon  speak  in  that  horrid 
way  I  won't  say  another  word.  I'm  worried 
too  much  already,  and  I  don't  want  you  to 
scold  me.  And  I  won't  have  it." 

"  Minnie  darling,  I  wish  you  would  tell  me 
something.  I'm  not  scolding.  I  merely  wish 
to  know  what  you  mean.  Do  you  really  mean 
that  the  Count  has  proposed  to  you?" 


"Of  course  that's  what  I  mean." 

"What  puzzles  me  is,  how  he  could  have 
got  the  chance.  It's  more  than  a  week  since 
he  saved  you,  and  we  all  felt  deeply  grateful 
to  him.  But  saving  a  girl's  life  doesn't  give  a 
man  any  claim  over  her ;  and  we  don't  alto 
gether  like  him ;  and  so  we  all  have  tried,  in  a 
quiet  way,  without  hurting  his  feelings,  you 
know,  to  prevent  him  from  having  any  ac 
quaintance  with  you." 

"  Oh,  I  know,  I  know,"  said  Minnie,  brisk 
ly.  "  He  told  me  all  that.  He  understands 
that ;  but  he  doesn't  care,  he  says,  if  /  only 
consent.  He  will  forgive  you,  he  says." 

Minnie's  volubility  was  suddenly  checked  by 
catching  her  sister's  eye  fixed  on  her  in  new 
amazement. 

"Now  you're  beginning  to  be  horrid,"  she 
cried.  "Don't,  don't — " 

"  Will  you  have  the  kindness  to  tell  me," 
said  Mrs.  Willoughby,  very  quietly,  "how  in 
the  world  the  Count  contrived  to  tell  you  all 
this?" 

"Why — why — several  times." 

"  Several  times!" 

"Yes." 

"Tell  me  where?" 

"  Why,  once  at  the  amphitheatre.  You  were 
walking  ahead,  and  I  sat  down  to  rest,  and  he 
came  and  joined  me.  He  left  before  you  came 
back." 

"He  must  have  been  following  us,  then." 

"Yes.  And  another  time  in  the  picture- 
gallery;  and  yesterday  in  a  shop;  and  this 
morning  at  the  Cathedral." 

"The  Cathedral!" 

"  Yes,  Kitty.  You  know  we  all  went,  and 
Lady  Dalrymple  would  not  go  up.  So  Ethel 
and  I  went  up.  And  when  we  got  up  to  the 
top  I  walked  about,  and  Ethel  sat  down  to  ad 
mire  the  view.  And,  you  know,  I  found  my 
self  off  at  a  little  distance,  when  suddenly  I  saw 
Count  Girasole.  And  then,  you  know,  he — he 
— proposed." 

Mrs.  Willoughby  sat  silent  for  some  time. 

"  And  what  did  you  say  to  him  ?"  she  asked 
at  length. 

"Why,  what  else  could  I  say?" 

"What  else  than  what?" 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should  act  so  like  a 
grand  inquisitor,  Kitty.  You  really  make  me 
feel  quite  nervous,"  said  Minnie,  who  put  her 
little  rosy-tipped  fingers  to  one  of  her  eyes,  and 
attempted  a  sob,  which  turned  out  a  failure. 

"  Oh,  I  only  asked  you  what  you  told  him, 
you  know." 

"Well,"  said  Minnie,  gravely,  "I  told  him, 
you  know,  that  I  was  awfully  grateful  to  him, 
and  that  I'd  give  any  thing  if  I  could  to  ex 
press  my  gratitude.  And  then,  you  know — oh, 
he  speaks  such  darling  broken  English — he 
called  me  his  'mees,'  and  tried  to  make  a  pret 
ty  speech,  which  was  so  mixed  with  Italian  that 
I  didn't  understand  one  single  word.  By-the- 
way,  Kitty,  isn't  it  odd  how  every  body  here 
speaks  Italian,  even  the  children  ?" 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


13 


"  Yes,  very  odd ;  but,  Minnie  dear,  I  want 
to  know  what  you  told  him." 

''Why,  I  told  him  that  I  didn't  know,  you 
know." 

"  And  then  ?" 

"And  then  he  took  my  hand.  Now,  Kitty, 
you're  unkind.  I  really  can  not  tell  you  all  this. " 

;'  Yes,  but  I  only  ask  so  as  to  advise  you.  I 
want  to  know  how  the  case  stands." 

"Well,  you  know,  he  was  so  urgent — " 

"Yes?" 

"  And  so  handsome — " 

"  Well  ?" 

"  And  then,  you  know,  he  saved  my  life — 
didn't  he,  now?  You  must  acknowledge  that 
much,  mustn't  you?" 

"Oh  yes." 

"  Well—" 

"Well?" 

Minnie  sighed. 

"  So  what  could  I  say  ?" 

Minnie  paused. 

Mrs.  Willoughby  looked  troubled. 

"  Kitty,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  look  at  me  with 
that  dreadful  expression.  You  really  make  me 
feel  quite  frightened." 

"  Minnie,"  said  the  other,  in  a  serious  voice, 
"  do  you  really  love  this  man  ?" 

"  Love  this  man !  why  no,  not  particularly ; 
but  I  like  him ;  that  is,  I  think  I  do,  or  rather 
I  thought  I  did ;  but  really  I'm  so  worried 
about  all  my  troubles  that  I  wish  he  had  never 
come  down  after  me.  I  don't  see  why  he  did, 
either.  I  didn't  ask  him  to.  I  remember, 
now,  I  really  felt  quite  embarrassed  when  I  saw 
him.  I  knew  there  would  be  trouble  about  it. 
And  I  wish  you  would  take  me  back  home.  I 
hate  Italy.  Do,  Kitty  darling.  But  then — " 

Minnie  paused  again. 

"Well,  Minnie  dear,  we  certainly  must  con 
trive  some  plan  to  shake  him  off  without  hurt 
ing  his  feelings.  It  can't  be  thought  of.  There 
are  a  hundred  objections.  If  the  worst  comes 
to  the  worst  we  can  go  back,  as  you  say,  to  En 
gland." 

"I  know;  but  then,"  said  Minnie,  "that's 
the  very  thing  that  I  can't  do — " 

"Can't  do  what?" 

"Go  back  to  England." 

"  Back  to  England !  Why  not  ?  I  don't 
know  what  you  mean." 

"  Well,  you  see,  Kitty,  that's  the  very  thing  I 
came  to  see  you  about.  This  dreadful  man — 
the  Count,  you  know — has  some  wonderful  way 
of  finding  out  where  I  go ;  and  he  keeps  all  the 
time  appearing  and  disappearing  in  the  very 
strangest  manner ;  and  when  I  saw  him  on  the 
roof  of  the  Cathedral  it  really  made  me  feel 
quite  giddy.  He  is  so  determined  to  win  me 
that  I'm  afraid  to  look  round.  He  takes  the 
commonest  civility  as  encouragement.  And 
then,  you  know — there  it  is — I  really  can't  go 
back  to  England." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 

"Why  there's — a — a  dreadful  person  there," 
said  Minnie,  with  an  awful  look  in  her  eyes. 


"A  what?" 

"A — person,"  said  Minnie. 

"A  man?" 

Minnie  nodded.  "Oh  yes — of  course.  Real 
ly  when  one  thinks  of  one's  troubles  it's  enough 
to  drive  one  distracted.  This  person  is  a  man. 
I  don't  know  why  it  is  that  I  should  be  so  wor 
ried  and  so  distracted  by  men.  I  do  not  like 
them,  and  I  wish  there  were  no  such  persons." 

"Another  man!"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby,  in 
some  surprise.  "Well,  Minnie,  you  certain- 

iy-" 

"Now  don't,  don't — not  a  word;  I  know  all 
you're  going  to  say,  and  I  won't  stand  it;"  and 
Minnie  ran  over  to  her  sister  and  held  her  hand 
over  her  mouth. 

"I  won't  say  a  word,"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby, 
as  soon  as  she  had  removed  Minnie's  hand ;  "  so 
begin." 

Minnie  resumed  her  place  on  the  sofa,  and 
gave  a  long  sigh. 

"Well,  yo'u  know,  Kitty  darling,  it  happened 
at  Brighton  last  September.  You  were  in  Scot 
land  then.  I  was  with  old  Lady  Shrewsbury, 
who  is  as  blind  as  a  bat — and  where 's  the  use  of 
having  a  person  to  look  after  you  when  they're 
blind !  You  see,  my  horse  ran  away,  and  I  think 
he  must  have  gone  ever  so  many  miles,  over 
railroad  bridges  and  hedges  and  stone  walls. 
I'm  certain  he  jumped  over  a  small  cottage. 
Well,  you  know,  when  all  seemed  lost,  sudden 
ly  there  was  a  strong  hand  laid  on  the  reins, 
and  my  horse  was  stopped.  I  tumbled  into 
some  strange  gentleman's  arms,  and  was  car 
ried  into  a  house,  where  I  was  resuscitated.  I 
returned  home  in  the  gentleman's  carriage. 

"Now  the  worst  of  it  is,"  said  Minnie,  with  a 
piteous  look,  "  that  the  person  who  stopped  the 
horse  called  to  inquire  after  me  the  next  day. 
Lady  Shrewsbury,  like  an  old  goose,  was  awful 
ly  civil  to  him ;  and  so  there  I  was !  His  name 
is  Captain  Kirby,  and  I  wish  there  were  no  cap 
tains  in  the  world.  The  life  he  led  me !  He 
used  to  call,  and  I  had  to  go  out  riding  with 
him,  and  old  Lady  Shrewsbury  utterly  neglect 
ed  me ;  and  so,  you  know,  Kitty  darling,  he  at 
last,  you  know,  of  course,  proposed.  That's 
what  they  all  do,  you  know,  when  they  save 
your  life.  Always  !  It's  awful !" 

Minnie  heaved  a  sigh,  and  sat  apparently 
meditating  on  the  enormous  baseness  of  the 
man  who  saved  a  lady's  life  and  then  pro 
posed;  and  it  was  not  until  Mrs.  Willoughby 
had  spoken  twice  that  she  was  recalled  to  her 
self. 

"What  did  you  tell  him?"  was  her  sister's 
question. 

"Why,  what  could  I  tell  him  ?" 

"What!"  cried  Mrs.  Willoughby;  "you 
don't — " 

"  Now,  Kitty,  I  think  it's  very  unkind  in  you, 
when  I  want  all  your  sympathy,  to  be  so  horrid." 

"Well,  tell  it  your  own' way,  Minnie  dearest." 

Minnie  sat  for  a  time  regarding  vacancy  with 
a  soft,  sad,  and  piteous  expression  in  her  large 
blue  eyes ;  with  her  head  also  a  little  on  one 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"ANOTHEB  MAN!" 


side,  and  her  delicate  hands  gently  clasped  in 
front  of  her. 

"You  see,  Kitty  darling,  he  took  me  out 
riding,  and — he  took  me  to  the  place  where  I 
had  met  him,  and  then  he  proposed.  Well,  you 
know,  I  didn't  know  what  to  say.  He  was  so 
earnest,  and  so  despairing.  And  then,  you  know, 
Kitty  dearest,  he  had  saved  my  life,  and  so — " 

"And  so?" 

"  Well,  I  told  him  I  didn't  know,  and  was 
shockingly  confused,  and  then  we  got  up  quite 
a  scene.  He  swore  that  he  would  go  to  Mex 
ico,  though  why  I  can't  imagine  ;  and  I  really 
wish  he  had  ;  but  I  was  frightened  at  the  time, 
and  I  cried ;  and  then  he  got  worse,  and  I  told 
him  not  to ;  whereupon  he  went  into  raptures, 
and  began  to  call  me  no  end  of  names — spooney 
names,  you  know ;  and  I — oh,  I  did  so  want  him 
to  stop ! — I  think  I  must  have  promised  him  all 
that  he  wanted ;  and  when  I  got  home  I  was 
frightened  out  of  my  poor  little  wits,  and  cried 
all  night." 

"Poor  dear  child!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wil- 
loughby,  with  tender  sympathy.  "What  a 
wretch!" 

"  No,  he  wasn't  a  wretch  at  all ;  he  was  aw 
fully  handsome,  only,  you  know,  he — was — so 
— '-awfully  persevering,  and  kept  so  at  my  heels ; 
but  I  hurried  home  from  Brighton,  and  thought 
I  had  got  rid  of  him." 

"  And  hadn't  you  ?" 

"Oh  dear,  no,"  said  Minnie,  mournfully. 
"  On  the  day  after  my  arrival  there  came  a 
letter ;  and,  you  know,  I  had  to  answer  it ;  and 
then  another ;  and  so  it  went  on — " 


"Oh,  Minnie!  why  didn't  you  tell  me  be 
fore  ?" 

"How  could  I  when  you  were  off  in  that 
horrid  Scotland  ?  I  always  hated  Scotland." 

"  You  might  have  told  papa." 

"  I  couldn't.  I  think  papa's  cruel  too.  He 
doesn't  care  for  me  at  all.  Why  didn't  he  find 
out  our  correspondence  and  intercept  it,  the 
way  papas  always  do  in  novels  ?  If  I  were  his 
papa  I'd  not  let  him  be  so  worried." 

"  And  did  he  never  call  on  you  ?" 

"Yes;  he  got  leave  of  absence  once,  and  I 
had  a  dreadful  time  with  him.  He  was  in  a 
desperate  state  of  mind.  He  was  ordered  off 
to  Gibraltar.  But  I  managed  to  comfort  him  ; 
and,  oh  dear,  Kitty  dear,  did  you  ever  try  to 
comfort  a  man,  and  the  man  a  total  stranger?" 

At  this  innocent  question  Mrs.  Willoughby's 
gravity  gave  way  a  little. 

Minnie  frowned,  and  then  sighed. 

"Well,  you  needn't  be  so  unkind,"  said  she  ; 
and  then  her  little  hand  tried  to  wipe  away  n. 
tear,  but  failed. 

"Did  he  go  to  Gibraltar?"  asked  Mrs.  Wil- 
loughby  at  length. 

"Yes,  he  did,"  said  Minnie,  with  a  little  as 
perity. 

"  Did  he  write  ?" 

"Of  course  he  wrote,"-in  the  same  tone. 

"  Well,  how  did  it  end  ?" 

"  End  !  It  didn't  end  at  all.  And  it  never 
will  end.  It  '11  go  on  getting  worse  and  worse 
every  day.  You  see  he  wrote,  and  said  a  lot  of 
rubbish  about  his  getting  leave  of  absence  and 
coming  to  see  me.  And  then  I  determined  to 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


IS 


run  away  ;  and  you  know  I  begged  you  to  take 
me  to  Italy,  and  this  is  the  first  time  I've  told 
you  the  real  reason." 

"  So  that  was  the  real  reason  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  Minnie,  my  poor  child,"  said  Mrs. 
Willoughby,  after  a  pause,  "you're  safe  from 
your  officer,  at  any  rate  ;  and  as  to  Count  Gira- 
sole,  we  must  save  you  from  him.  Don't  give 
way. " 

"  But  you  can't  save  me.  They'll  come  after 
me,  I  know.  Captain  Kirby,  the  moment  he 
finds  out  that  I  am  here,  will  come  flying  after 
me ;  and  then,  oh  dear !  the  other  one  will  come, 
and  the  American,  too,  of  course." 

"  The  what  ?  who  ?"  cried  Mrs.  Willoughby, 
starting  up  with  new  excitement.  ''Who's 
that?  What  did  you  say,  Minnie?  The 
American  ?  What  American  ?" 

Minnie  threw  a  look  of  reproach  at  her  sister, 
and  her  eyes  fell. 

"  You  can't  possibly  mean  that  there  are  any 
more — " 

"There — is — one — more,"  said  Minnie,  in  a 
low,  faint  voice,  stealing  a  glance  at  her  sister, 
and  looking  a  little  frightened. 

"One  more!"  repeated  her  sister,  breathless. 

"Well,  I  didn't  come  here  to  be  scolded," 
said  Minnie,  rising,  "  and  I'll  go.  But  I  hoped 
that  you'd  help  me ;  and  I  think  you're  very 
unkind  ;  and  I  wouldn't  treat  you  so." 

"No,  no,  Minnie,"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby,  ris 
ing,  and  putting  her  arm  round  her  sister,  and 
drawing  her  back.  "  I  had  no  idea  of  scolding. 
I  never  scolded  any  one  in  my  life,  and  wouldn't 
speak  a  cross  word  to  you  for  the  world.  Sit 
down  now,  Minnie  darling,  and  tell  me  all. 
What  about  the  American  ?  I  won't  express  any 
more  astonishment,  no  matter  what  I  may  feel." 

"But  you  mustn't  feel  any  astonishment," 
insisted  Minnie. 

"  Well,  darling,  I  won't,"  said  her  sister. 

Minnie  gave  a  sigh. 

"  It  was  last  year,  you  know,  in  the  spring. 
Papa  and  I  were  going  out  to  Montreal,  to 
bring  you  home.  You  remember  ?" 

Mrs.  Willoughby  nodded,  while  a  sad  ex 
pression  came  over  her  face. 

"And,  you  remember,  the  steamer  was 
wrecked." 

"Yes." 

"  But  I  never  told  you  how  my  life  was  saved." 

"Why,  yes,  you  did.  Didn't  papa  tell  all 
about  the  heroic  sailor  who  swam  ashore  with 
you  ?  how  he  was  frantic  about  you,  having 
been  swept  away  by  a  wave  from  you  ?  and  how 
he  fainted  away  with  joy  when  you  were  brought 
to  him  ?  How  can  you  suppose  I  would  forget 
that  ?  And  then  how  papa  tried  to  find  the 
noble  sailor  to  reward  him." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Minnie,  in  a  despondent 
tone.  "That's  all  very  true  ;  but  he  wasn't  a 
noble  sailor  at  all." 

"What!" 

"You  see,  he  wasn't  going  to  have  a  scene 
with  papa,  and  so  he  kept  out  of  his  way.  Oh 


',  dear,  how  I  wish  he'd  been  as  considerate  with 
me !  But  that's  the  way  always ;  yes,  always." 

"Well,  who  was  he?" 

"  Why,  he  was  an  American  gentleman,  re 
turning  home  from  a  tour  in  Europe.  He 
saved  me,  as  you  have  heard.  I  really  don't 
remember  much  about  it,  only  there  was  a  ter- 
j  rible  rush  of  water,  and  a  strong  arm  seized 
I  me,  and  I  thought  it  was  papa  all  the  time. 
And  I  found  myself  earned,  I  don't  know  how, 
;  through  the  waves,  and  then  I  fainted  ;  and  I 
!  really  don't  know  any  thing  about  it  except 
papa's  story." 

Mrs.  Willoughby  looked  at  Minnie  in  silence, 
but  said  nothing. 

"And  then,  you  know,  he  traveled  with  us, 
and  papa  thought  he  was  one  of  the  passengers, 
and  was  civil ;  and  so  he  used  to  talk  to  me, 
and  at  last,  at  Montreal,  he  used  to  call  on  me." 

"Where?" 

"At  your  house,  dearest." 

"  Why,  how  was  that  ?" 

"You  could  not  leave  your  room,  darling,  so 
I  used  to  go  down." 

"  Oh,  Minnie!" 

"And  he  proposed  to  me  there." 

"  Where  ?  in  my  parlor  ?" 

"Yes;  in  your  parlor,  dearest." 

"  I  suppose  it's  not  necessary  for  me  to  ask 
what  you  said." 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  Minnie,  in  a  sweet 
voice.  "  He  was  so  grand  and  so  strong,  and 
he  never  made  any  allusions  to  the  wreck ;  and 
it  was — the — the — very  first  time  that  any  body 
ever — proposed  ;  and  so,  you  know,  I  didn't 
know  how  to  take  it,  and  I  didn't  want  to  hurt 
his  feelings,  and  I  couldn't  deny  that  he  had 
saved  my  life ;  and  I  don't  know  when  I  ever 
was  so  confused.  It's  awful,  Kitty  darling. 

"And  then,  you  know,  darling,"  continued 
Minnie,  "he  went  away,  and  used  to  write  reg 
ularly  every  month.  He  came  to  see  me  once, 
and  I  was  frightened  to  death  almost.  He  is 
going  to  marry  me  next  year.  He  used  an  aw 
ful  expression,  dearest.  He  told  me  he  was  a 
struggling  man.  Isn't  that  horrid  ?  What  is  it, 
Kitty  ?  Isn't  it  something  very,  very  dreadful  ?" 

"  He  writes  still,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Oh  dear,  yes." 

Mrs.  Willoughby  was  silent  for  some  time. 

"Oh,  Minnie,"  said  she  at  last,  "what  a 
trouble  all  this  is !  How  I  wish  you  had  been 
with  me  all  this  time  !" 

"  Well,  what  made  you  go  and  get  married  ?" 
said  Minnie. 

"Hush,"said  Mrs. Willoughby,  sadly,  "never 
mind.  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  one  thing, 
and  that  is,  I  will  never  leave  you  alone  with  a 
gentleman,  unless — " 

"Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't  want  the  horrid 
creatures,"  said  Minnie.  "And  you  needn't 
be  so  unkind.  I'm  sure  I  don't  see  why  people 
will  come  always  and  save  my  life  wherever  I 
go.  I  don't  want  them  to.  I  don't  want  to 
have  my  life  saved  any  more.  I  think  it's 
dreadful  to  have  men  chasing  me  all  over  the 


16 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"HE   BENT   HIS  HEAD  DOWN,  AND  RAN   HIS  HAND  THROUGH  HIS  BUSHY   HAIB." 


world.  I'm  afraid  to  stop  in  Italy,  and  I'm 
afraid  to  go  back  to  England.  Then  I'm  al 
ways  afraid  of  that  dreadful  American.  I  sup 
pose  it's  no  use  for  me  to  go  to  the  Holy  Land, 
or  Egypt,  or  Australia;  for  then  my  life  would 
be  saved  by  an  Arab,  or  a  New  Zealander. 
And  oh,  Kitty,  wouldn't  it  be  dreadful  to  have 
some  Arab  proposing  to  me,  or  a  Hindu !  Oh, 
what  am  I  to  do  ?" 

"  Trust  to  me,  darling.  I'll  get  rid  of  Gira- 
sole.  We  will  go  to  Naples.  He  has  to  stop 
at  Rome;  I  know  that.  We  will  thus  pass 
quietly  away  from  him,  without  giving  him  any 
pain,  and  he'll  soon  forget  all  about  it.  As  for 
the  others,  I'll  stop  this  correspondence  first, 
and  then  deal  with  them  as  they  come." 

"You'll  never  do  it,  never!"  cried  Minnie; 
':  I  know  you  won't.  You  don't  know  them." 


finally  found  himself 
in  Naples.  It  was  al 
ways  a  favorite  place 
of  his,  and  he  had  es 
tablished  himself  in 
comfortable  quarters 
on  the  Strada  Nuovn, 
from  the  windows  of 
which  there  was  a 
magnificent  view  of 
the  whole  bay,  with 
Vesuvius,  Capri, 
Baiaj,  and  all  the  re 
gions  round  about. 
Here  an  old  friend 
had  unexpectedly 
turned  up  in  the  per 
son  of  Scone  Dacres. 
Their  friendship  had 
been  formed  some 
five  or  six  years  be 
fore  in  South  Ameri 
ca,  where  they  had 
made  a  hazardous 
journey  in  company 
across  the  continent, 
and  had  thus  ac 
quired  a  familiarity 
with  one  another 
which  years  of  or 
dinary  association 
would  have  failed  to 
give.  Scone  Dacres 
was  several  years  old 
er  than  Lord  Haw- 
bury. 

One  evening  Lord 
Hawbury  had  just 
finished  his  dinner, 
and  was  dawdling 
about  in  a  listless 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IN   THE   CRATER   OF   VESUVIUS. 

LORD  HARRY  HAWBURY  had  been  wandering 
for  three  months  on  the  Continent,  and  had 


way,  when  Dacres  entered,  quite  unceremoni 
ously,  and  flung  himself  into  a  chair  by  one  of 
the  windows. 

"Any .Bass,  Hawbury?"  was  his  only  greet 
ing,  as  he  bent  his  head  down,  and  ran  his  hand 
through  his  bushy  hair. 

"  Lachryma  Christi  ?"  asked  Hawbury,  in  an 
interrogative  tone. 

"  No,  thanks.  That  wine  is  a  humbug.  I'm 
beastly  thirsty,  and  as  dry  as  a  cinder." 

Hawbury  ordered  the  Bass,  and  Dacres  soon 
was  refreshing  himself  with  copious  draughts. 

The  two  friends  presented  a  singular  con 
trast.  Lord  Hawbury  was  tall  and  slim,  with 
straight  flaxen  hair  and  flaxen  whiskers,  whose 
long,  pendent  points  hung  down  to  his  shoul 
ders.  His  thin  face,  somewhat  pale,  had  an 
air  of  high  refinement ;  and  an  ineradicable 
habit  of  lounging,  together  with  a  drawling  in 
tonation,  gave  him  the  appearance  of  being  the 
laziest  mortal  alive.  Dacres,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  the  very  opposite  of  all  this.  He  was  as  tall 
as  Lord  Hawbury,  but  was  broad-shouldered  and 
massive.  He  had  a  big  head,  a  big  mustache, 
and  a  thick  beard.  His  hair  was  dark,  and 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


17 


covered  his  head  in  dense,  bushy  curls.  His 
voice  was  loud,  his  manner  abrupt,  and  he  al 
ways  sat  bolt  upright. 

"  Any  thing  up,  Sconey  ?"  asked  Lord  Haw- 
bury,  after  a  pause,  during  which  he  had  been 
languidly  gazing  at  his  friend. 

"  Well,  no,  nothing,  except  that  I've  been 
up  Vesuvius." 

Lord  Hawbury  gave  a  long  whistle. 

"And  how  did  you  find  the  mountain  ?"  he 
asked ;  "lively?" 

"Rather  so.  In  fact,  infernally  so,"  added 
Dacres,  thoughtfully.  "Look  here,  Hawbury, 
do  you  detect  any  smell  of  sulphur  about  me  ?'' 

"  Sulphur !  What  in  the  name  of — sulphur ! 
Why,  now  that  you  mention  it,  I  do  notice 
something  of  a  brimstone  smell.  Sulphur ! 
Why,  man,  you're  as  strong  as  a  lighted  match. 
What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself? 
Down  inside,  eh  ?" 

Dacres  made  no  answer  for  some  time,  but 
sat  stroking  his  beard  with  his  left  hand,  while 
his  right  held  a  cigar  which  he  had  just  taken 
out  of  a  box  at  his  elbow.  His  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  a  point  in  the  sky  exactly  half-way  be 
tween  Capri  and  Baias,  and  about  ten  degrees 
above  the  horizon. 

"Hawbury,"  said  he,  solemnly,  after  about 
two  minutes  of  portentous  silence. 

"Well,  old  man?" 

"I've  had  an  adventure." 

"An  adventure!  Well,  don't  be  oashful. 
Breathe  forth  the  tale  in  this  confiding  ear." 

"You  see,''  said  Dacres,  "I  started  off  this 
morning  for  a  ride,  and  had  no  more  intention 
of  going  to  Vesuvius  than  to  Jericho." 

"I  should  hope  not.  What  business  has  a 
fellow  like  you  with  Vesuvius — a  fellow  that  has 
scaled  Cotopaxi,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing?  Not 
you." 

Dacres  put  the  cigar  thoughtfully  in  his  mouth, 
struck  a  light,  and  tried  to  light  it,  but  couldn't. 
Then  he  bit  the  end  off,  which  he  had  forgotten 
to  do  before.  Then  he  gave  three  long,  solemn, 
and  portentous  puffs.  Then  he  took  the  cigar 
between  his  first  and  second  fingers,  and  stretch 
ed  his  hand  out  toward  Hawbury. 

"Hawbury,  my  boy,"  said  he  again. 

"All  right." 

"  You  remember  the  time  when  I  got  that 
bullet  in  Uruguay?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  had  a  shot  to-day." 

"A  shot!  The  deuce  you  had.  Cool,  too. 
Any  of  those  confounded  bandits  about?  I 
thought  that  was  all  rot." 

"It  wasn't  a  real  shot;  only  figurative." 

"Figurative!" 

"Yes ;  it  was  a — a  girl." 

"  By  Jove ! "  cried  Hawbury,  starting  up  from 
an  easy  posture  which  he  had  secured  for  him 
self  after  fifteen  minutes'  shifting  and  changing. 
"  A  girl !  You,  Dacres,  spooney !  A  fellow 
like  you,  and  a  girl !  By  Jove  !" 

Hawbury  fell  back  again,  and  appeared  to 
be  vainly  trying  to  grapple  with  the  thought. 
B 


Dacres  put  his  cigar  between  his  lips  again, 
and  gave  one  or  two  puffs  at  it,  but  it  had  gone 
out.  He  pitched  it  out  of  the  window,  and 
struck  his  hand  heavily  on  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"  Yes,  Hawbury,  a  girl ;  and  spooney,  too 
— as  spooney  as  blazes ;  but  I'll  swear  there 
isn't  such  another  girl  upon  the  whole  face  of 
the  earth ;  and  when  you  bear  in  mind  the  fact 
that  my  observation,  with  extended  view,  has 
surveyed  mankind  from  China  to  Peru,  you'll 
be  able  to  appreciate  the  value  of  my  statement." 

"All  right,  old  man;  and  now  for  the  ad 
venture." 

'  "The  adventure?  Well,  you  see,  I  started 
for  a  ride.  Had  a  misty  idea  of  going  to  Sor 
rento,  and  was  jogging  along  among  a  million 
pigs  or  so  at  Portici,  when  I  overtook  a  car 
riage  that  was  going  slowly  along.  There  were 
three  ladies  in  it.  The  backs  of  two  of  them 
were  turned  toward  me,  and  I  afterward  saw 
that  one  was  old — no  doubt  the  chaperon — and 
the  other  was  young.  But  the  third  lady,  Haw 
bury —  Well,  it's  enough  to  say  that  I,  who 
have  seen  all  women  in  all  lands,  have  never 
seen  any  thing  like  her.  She  was  on  the  front 
seat,  with  her  face  turned  toward  me.  She 
was  small,  a  perfect  blonde ;  hair  short  and 
curling;  a  round,  girlish  face  ;  dimpled  cheeks, 
and  little  mouth.  Her  eyes  were  large  and 
blue ;  and,  as  she  looked  at  me,  I  saw  such  a 
bewitching  innocence,  such  plaintive  entreaty, 
such  pathetic  trust,  such  helpless,  childlike — 
I'll  be  hanged  if  I  can  find  words  to  express 
what  I  want  to  say.  The  English  language 
doesn't  contain  them." 

"Do  it  in  Latin,  then,  or  else  skip  the  whole 
description.  All  the  same.  I  know  the  whole 
story  by  heart.  Love's  young  dream,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing,  you  know." 

"Well,"  continued  Dacres,  "there  was 
something  so  confoundedly  bewitching  in  the 
little  girl's  face  that  I  found  myself  keeping  on 
at  a  slow  pace  in  the  rear  of  the  carriage,  and 
feasting  on  her  looks.  Of  course  I  wasn't  rude 
about  it  or  demonstrative." 

"Oh,  of  course.  No  demonstration.  It's 
ijothing  to  ride  behind  a  carriage  for  several 
hours,  and  '  feast'  one's  self  on  a  pretty  girl's 
looks !  But  go  on,  old  man." 

"Oh,  I  managed  it  without  giving  offense. 
You  see,  there  was  such  a  beastly  lot  of  pigs, 
peasants,  cows,  dirty  children,  lazaroni,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing,  that  it  was  simply  impossible 
to  go  any  faster ;  so  you  see  I  was  compelled 
to  ride  behind.  Sometimes,  indeed,  I  fell  a 
good  distance  back." 

"And  then  caught  up  again  to  resume  the 
feast  ?' " 

"Well— yes." 

"But  I  don't  see  what  this  has  to  do  with 
your  going  to  Vesuvius." 

"  It  has  every  thing  to  do.  You  see,  I  start 
ed  without  any  fixed  purpose,  and  after  I  saw 
this  carriage,  I  kept  on  insensibly  after  it." 

"Oh,  I  see — yes.     By  Jove!" 

"And  they  drove  up  iu  far  as  they  could." 


18 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"Yes?" 

"And  I  followed.  You  see,  I  had  nothing 
else  to  do — and  that  little  girl !  Besides,  it  was 
the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  for  me  to 
be  going  up ;  and  the  fact  that  I  was  bent  on 
the  same  errand  as  themselves  was  sufficient  to 
account  for  my  being  near  the  carriage,  and 
would  prevent  them  from  supposing  that  I  was 
following  them.  So,  you  see,  I  followed,  and 
at  length  they  stopped  at  the  Hermitage.  I 
left  my  horse  there,  and  strolled  forward,  with 
out  going  very  far  away ;  my  only  idea  was  to 
keep  the  girl  in  sight.  I  had  no  idea  that  they 
would  go  any  further.  To  ascend  the  cone 
seemed  quite  out  of  the  question.  I  thought 
they  would  rest  at  the  Hermitage,  drink  some 
Lachryma  Christi,  and  go  back.  But  to  my 
surprise,  as  I  was  walking  about,  I  saw  the  two 
young  ladies  come  out  and  go  toward  the  cone. 

"  I  kept  out  of  the  way,  as  you  may  suppose, 
and  watched  them,  wondering  what  idea  they 
had.  As  they  passed  I  heard  the  younger  one 
— the  child-angel,  you  know,  my  girl — teasing 
the  other  to  make  the  ascent  of  the  cone,  and 
the  other  seemed  to  be  quite  ready  to  agree  to 
the  proposal. 

"  Now,  as  far  as  the  mere  ascent  is  con 
cerned,  of  course  yon  know  that  is  not  much. 
The  guides  were  there  with  straps  and  chairs, 
and  that  sort  of  thing,  all  ready,  so  that  there 
was  no  difficulty  about  that.  The  real  diffi 
culty  was  in  these  girls  going  off  unattended  ; 
and  I  could  only  account  for  it  by  supposing 
that  the  chaperon  knew  nothing  whatever  about 
their  proposal.  No  doubt  the  old  lady  was 
tired,  and  the  young  ones  went  out,  as  she  sup 
posed,  for  a  stroll ;  and  now,  as  they  proposed, 
this  stroll  meant  nothing  less  than  an  ascent  of 
the  cone.  After  all,  there  is  nothing  surprising 
in  the  fact  that  a  couple  of  active  and  spirited 
girls  should  attempt  this.  From  the  Hermitage 
it  does  not  seem  to  be  at  all  difficult,  and  they 
had  no  idea  of  the  actual  nature  of  the  task. 

"  What  made  it  worse,  however,  was  the  state 
of  the  mountain  at  this  particular  time.  I  don't 
know  whether  you  have  taken  the  trouble  to 
raise  your  eyes  so  high  as  the  top  of  Vesuvius — " 

Hawbury  languidly  shook  his  head. 

"  Well,  I  supposed  not ;  but  if  you  had  taken 
the  trouble,  you  would  have  noticed  an  ugly 
cloud  which  is  generally  regarded  here  as  omin 
ous.  This  morning,  you  know,  there  was  an 
unusually  large  canopy  of  very  dirty  smoke  over 
head.  I  knew  by  the  look  of  things  that  it  was 
not  a  very  pleasant  place  to  go  to.  But  of 
course  they  could  not  be  supposed  to  know  any 
thing  of  the  kind,  and  their  very  ignorance  made 
them  rash. 

"  Well,  I  walked  along  after  them,  not  know 
ing  what  might  turn  up,  but  determined  to  keep 
them  in  sight.  Those  beggars  with  chairs  were 
not  to  be  trusted,  and  the  ladies  had  gold  enough 
about  them  to  tempt  violence.  What  a  reck 
less  old  devil  of  a  chaperon  she  was,  to  let  those 
young  girls  go !  So  I  walked  on,  cursing  all 
the  time  the  conventionalities  of  civilization 


that  prevented  me  from  giving  them  warning. 
They  were  rushing  straight  on  into  danger,  and 
I  had  to  keep  silent. 

"On  reaching  the  foot  of  the  cone  a  lot  of 
fellows  came  up  to  them,  with  chairs  and  straps, 
and  that  sort  of  thing.  They  employed  some 
of  them,  and,  mounting  the  chairs,  they  were 
carried  up,  while  I  walked  up  by  myself  at  a 
distance  from  which  I  could  observe  all  that  was 
going  on.  The  girls  were  quite  merry,  appeared 
to  be  enchanted  with  their  ride  up  the  cone,  en 
joyed  the  novelty  of  the  sensation,  and  I  heard 
their  lively  chatter  and  their  loud  peals  of  ring 
ing  laughter,  and  longed  more  than  ever  to  be 
able  to  speak  to  them. 

"Now  the  little  girl  that  I  had  first  seen — 
the  child-angel,  you  know  —  seemed,  to  my 
amazement,  to  be  more  adventurous  than  the 
other.  By  her  face  you  would  suppose  her  to 
be  as  timid  as  a  dove,  and  yet  on  this  occasion 
she  was  the  one  who  proposed  the  ascent,  urged 
on  her  companion,  and  answered  all  her  objec 
tions.  Of  course  she  could  not  have  really  been 
so  plucky  as  she  seemed.  For  my  part,  I  be 
lieve  the  other  one  had  more  real  pluck  of  the 
two,  but  it  was  the  child-angel's  ignorance  that 
made  her  so  bold.  She  went  up  the  cone  as 
she  would  have  gone  up  stairs,  and  looked  at 
the  smoke  as  she  would  have  looked  at  a  roll 
ing  cloud. 

"At  length  the  bearers  stopped,  and  signi 
fied  to  the  girls  that  they  could  not  go  any  fur 
ther.  The  girls  could  not  speak  Italian,  or  any 
other  language  apparently  than  English,  and 
therefore  could  not  very  well  make  out  what  the 
bearers  were  trying  to  say,  but  by  their  gestures 
they  might  have  known  that  they  were  warn 
ing  them  against  going  any  further.  One  might 
have  supposed  that  no  warning  would  have  been 
needed,  and  that  one  look  upward  would  have 
been  enough.  The  top  of  the  cone  rose  for 
upward  of  a  hundred  feet  above  them,  its  soil 
composed  of  lava  blocks  and  ashes  intermingled 
with  sulphur.  In  this  soil  there  were  a  million 
cracks  and  crevices,  from  which  sulphurous 
smoke  was  issuing;  and  the  smoke,  which  was 
but  faint  and  thin  near  where  they  stood,  grew 
denser  farther  up,  till  it  intermingled  with  the 
larger  volumes  that  rolled  up  from  the  crater. 

"Now,  as  I  stood  there,  I  suddenly  heard  a 
wild  proposal  from  the  child-angel. 

"  'Oh,  Ethel,'  she  said,  'I've  a  great  mind 
to  go  up — '  " 

Here  Hawbury  interrupted  his  friend  : 

"  What's  that  ?  Was  that  her  friend's  name  ?" 
he  asked,  with  some  animation.  "Ethel? — 
odd,  too.  Ethel  ?  H'm.  Ethel  ?  Brunette, 
was  she  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Odd,  too ;  infernally  odd.  But,  pooh ! 
what  rot !  Just  as  though  there  weren't  a 
thousand  Ethels!" 

"What's  that  you're  saying  about  Ethel?" 
asked  Dacres. 

"Oh,  nothing,  old  man.  Excuse  my  inter 
rupting  you.  Go  ahead.  How  did  it  end  ?" 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


11) 


"  Well,  the  child-an 
gel  said,  '  Ethel,  I've  a 
great  mind  to  go  up.' 

' '  This  proposal  Eth  el 
scouted  in  ho.rror  and 
consternation. 

"  'You  must  not  — 
you  shall  not ! '  she 
cried. 

"  'Oh,  it's  nothing, 
it's  nothing,'  said  the 
child-angel.  'I'm  dy 
ing  to  take  a  peep  into 
the  crater.  It  must 
be  awfully  funny.  Do 
come ;  do,  do  come, 
Ethel  darling.' 

"  '  Oh,  Minnie, 
don't,'  cried  the  other, 
in  great  alarm.  And 
I  now  learned  that  the 
child-angel's  name  was 
Minnie.  '  Minnie,'  she 
cried,  clinging  to  the 
child-angel,  'you  must 
not  go.  I  would  not 
have  come  up  if  I  had 
thought  you  would  be 
so  unreasonable.' 

"  'Ethel,'  said  the 
other,  '  you  are  really 
getting  to  be  quite  a 
scold.  How  ridiculous 
it  is  in  you  to  set  your 
self  up  in  this  place  as 
a  duenna !  How  can  I 
help  goingup?  and  only 
one  peep.  And  I  never 
saw  a  crater  in  my  life, 
and  I'm  dying  to  know 
what  it  looks  like.  I 
know  it's  awfully  funny ;  and  it's  horrid  in  you 
to  be  so  unkind  about  it.  And  I  really  must 
go.  Won't  you  come  ?  Do,  do,  dear — dearest 
darling,  do — do — do!' 

"Ethel  was  firm,  however,  and  tried  to  dis 
suade  the  other,  but  to  no  purpose ;  for  at  length, 
with  a  laugh,  the  child-angel  burst  away,  and 
skipped  lightly  up  the  slope  toward  the  crater. 

"  '  Just  one  peep,'  she  said.  '  Come,  Ethel, 
I  must,  I  really  must,  you  know.' 

"  She  turned  for  an  instant  as  she  said  this, 
and  I  saw  the  glory  of  her  child-face  as  it  was 
irradiated  by  a  smile  of  exquisite  sweetness. 
The  play  of  feature,  the  light  of  her  eyes,  and 
the  expression  of  innocence  and  ignorance  un 
conscious  of  danger,  filled  me  with  profound 
sadness.  And  there  was  I,  standing  alone,  see 
ing  that  sweet  child  flinging  herself  to  ruin, 
and  yet  unable  to  prevent  her,  simply  because 
I  was  bound  hand  and- foot  by  the  infernal  re 
strictions  of  a  miserable  and  a  senseless  con 
ventionality.  Dash  it,  I  say!" 

As  Dacres  growled  out  this  Hawbury  eleva 
ted  his  eyebrows,  and  stroked  his  long,  pend 
ent  whiskers  lazily  with  his  left  hand,  while 


' i SAW  HER 


with  his  right  he  drummed  on  the  table  near 
him. 

"Well,"  resumed  Dacres,  "the  child-angel 
ran  up  for  some  distance,  leaving  Ethel  behind. 
Ethel  called  after  her  for  some  time,  and  then 
began  to  follow  her  up.  Meanwhile  the  guides, 
who  had  thus  far  stood  apart,  suddenly  caught 
sight  of  the  child -angel's  figure,  and,  with  a 
loud  warning  cry,  they  ran  after  her.  They 
seemed  to  me,  however,  to  be  a  lazy  lot,  for 
they  scarce  got  up  as  far  as  the  place  where 
Ethel  was.  Now,  you  know,  all  this  time  I 
was  doomed  to  inaction.  But  at  this  juncture 
I  strolled  carelessly  along,  pretending  not  to 
see  any  thing  in  particular ;  and  so,  taking  up 
an  easy  attitude,  I  waited  for  the  de'nouement. 
It  was  a  terrible  position  too.  That  child-an 
gel  !  I  would  have  laid  down  my  life  for  her, 
but  I  had  to  stand  idle,  and  see  her  rush  to 
fling  her  life  away.  And  all  because  I  had  not 
happened  to  have  the  mere  formality  of  an  in 
troduction. 

"Well,  you  know,  I  stood  there  waiting  for 
the  denouement.  Now  it  happened  that,  as 
the  child -angel  went  up,  a  brisk  breeze  had 


20 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


started,  which  blew  away  all  the  smoke,  so  that 
she  went  along  for  some  distance  without  any 
apparent  inconvenience.  I  saw  her  reach  the 
top ;  I  saw  her  turn  and  wave  her  hand  in  tri 
umph.  Then  I  saw  her  rush  forward  quickly 
and  nimbly  straight  toward  the  crater.  She 
seemed  to  go  down  into  it.  And  then  the  wind 
changed  or  died  away,  or  both,  for  there  came 
a  vast  cloud  of  rolling  smoke,  black,  cruel,  suf 
focating  ;  and  the  mountain  crest  and  the  child- 
angel  were  snatched  from  my  sight. 

"I  was  roused  by  a  shriek  from  Ethel.  I 
saw  her  rush  up  the  slope,  and  struggle  in  a 
vain  endeavor  to  save  her  friend.  But  before 
she  had  taken  a  dozen  steps  down  came  the 
rolling  smoke,  black,  wrathful,  and  sulphurous; 
and  I  saw  her  crouch  down  and  stagger  back, 
and  finally  emerge  pale  as  death,  and  gasping 
for  breath.  She  saw  me  as  I  stood  there ;  in 
fact,  I  had  moved  a  little  nearer. 

'"Oh,  Sir,'  she  cried,  'save  her!  Oh,  my 
God,  she's  lost!' 

"This  was  very  informal,  you  know,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing;  but  she  had  broken  the  ice, 
and  had  accosted  me ;  so  I  waived  all  cere 
mony,  and  considered  the  introduction  suffi 
cient.  I  took  off  my  hat,  and  told  her  to  calm 
herself. 

"But  she  only  wrung  her  hands,  and  im 
plored  me  to  save  her  friend. 

"  And  now,  my  boy,  lucky  was  it  for  me  that 
my  experience  at  Cotopaxi  and  Popocatepetl 
had  been  so  thorough  and  so  peculiar.  My 
knowledge  came  into  play  at  this  time.  I  took 
my  felt  hat  and  put  it  over  my  mouth,  and  then 
tied  it  around  my  neck  so  that  the  felt  rim  came 
over  my  cheeks  and  throat.  Thus  I  secured  a 
plentiful  supply  of  air,  and  the  felt  acted  as  a 
kind  of  ventilator  to  prevent  the  access  to  my 
lungs  of  too  much  of  the  sulphurous  vapor.  Of 
course  such  a  contrivance  would  not  be  good 
,for  more  than  five  minutes;  but  then,  you  know, 
five  minutes  were  all  that  I  wanted. 

"  So  up  I  rushed,  and,  as  the  slope  was  only 
about  a  hundred  feet,  I  soon  reached  the  top. 
Here  I  could  see  nothing  whatever.  The  tre 
mendous  smoke-clouds  rolled  all  about  on  ev 
ery  side,  enveloping  me  in  their  dense  folds, 'and 
shutting  every  thing  from  view.  I  heard  the 
cry  of  the  asses  of  guides,  who  were  howling 
where  I  left  them  below,  and  were  crying  to  me 
to  come  back — the  infernal  idiots !  The  smoke 
was  impenetrable ;  so  I  got  down  on  my  hands 
.and  knees  and  groped  about.  I  was  on  her 
track,  and  knew  she  could  not  be  far  away.  I 
could  not  spend  more  than  five  minutes  there, 
for  my  felt  hat  would  not  assist  me  any  longer. 
About  two  minutes  had  already  passed.  An 
other  minute  was  taken  up  in  creeping  about  on 
my  hands  and  knees.  A  half  minute  more  fol 
lowed.  I  was  in  despair.  The  child-angel  I 
saw  must  have  run  in  much  further  than  I  had 
supposed,  and  perhaps  I  could  not  find  her  at 
all.  A  sickening  fear  came  to  me  that  she  had 
.grown  dizzy,  or  had  slid  down  over  the  loose 
sand  into  the  terrific  abyss  of  the  crater  itself. 


So  another  half  minute  passed  ;  and  now  only 
one  minute  was  left." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  managed  to  be  so  con 
foundedly  accurate  in  your  reckoning.  How 
was  it?  You  didn't  carry  your  watch  in  one 
hand,  and  feel  about  with  the  other,  I  sup 
pose  ?" 

"  No ;  but  I  looked  at  my  watch  at  intervals. 
But  never  mind  that.  Four  minutes,  as  I  said, 
were  up,  and  only  one  minute  remained,  and 
that  was  not  enough  to  take  me  back.  I  was 
at  the  last  gasp  already,  and  on  the  verge  of 
despair,  when  suddenly,  as  I  crawled  on,  there 
lay  the  child-angel  full  before  me,  within  my 
reach. 

"Yes,"  continued  Dacres,  after  a  pause, 
"there  she  lay,  just  in  my  grasp,  just  at  my 
own  last  gasp.  One  second  more  and  it  must 
have  been  all  up.  She  was  senseless,  of  course. 
I  caught  her  up  ;  I  rose  and  ran  back  as  quick 
as  I  could,  bearing  my  precious  burden.  She 
was  as  light  as  a  feather — no  weight  at  all.  I 
carried  her  as  tenderly  as  if  she  was  a  little 
baby.  As  I  emerged  from  the  smoke  Ethel 
rushed  up  to  me  and  set  up  a  cry,  but  I  told  her 
to  keep  quiet  and  it  would  be  all  right.  Then 
I  directed  the  guides  to  carry  her  down,  and  I 
myself  then  carried  down  the  child-angel. 

"  You  see  I  wasn't  going  to  give  her  up.  I 
had  had  hard  work  enough  getting  her.  Besides, 
the  atmosphere  up  there  was  horrible.  It  was 
necessary,  first  of  all,  to  get  her  down  to  the 
foot  of  the  cone,  where  ^he  could  have  pure  air, 
and  then  resuscitate  her.  Therefore  I  directed 
the  guides  to  take  down  Ethel  in  a  chair,  while 
I  carried  down  the  child-angel.  They  had  to 
carry  her  down  over  the  lava  blocks,  but  I  went 
to  a  part  of  the  cone  where  it  was  all  loose 
sand,  and  went  down  flying.  I  was  at  the  bot 
tom  a  full  half  hour  before  the  others. 

"  Then  I  laid  her  upon  the  loose  sand ;  and 
I  swear  to  you,  Hawbury,  never  in  all  my  life 
have  I  seen  such  a  sight.  She  lay  there  be 
fore  my  eyes  a  picture  of  loveliness  beyond  im 
agination — as  beautiful  as  a  dream — more  like 
a  child-angel  than  ever.  Her  hair  clustered  in 
golden  curls  over  her  white  brow,  her  little 
hands  were  folded  meekly  over  her  breast,  her 
lips  were  parted  into  a  sweet  smile,  the  gentle 
eyes  no  longer  looked  at  me  with  the  piteous, 
pleading,  trustful,  innocent  expression  which  I 
had  noticed  in  them  before,  and  her  hearing 
was  deaf  to  the  words  of  love  and  tenderness 
that  I  lavished  upon  her." 

"  Good ! "  muttered  Hawbury ;  "  you  talk  like 
a  novel.  Drive  on,  old  man.  I'm  really  begin 
ning  to  feel  excited." 

"The  fact  is,"  said  Dacres,  "I  have  a  cer 
tain  set  of  expressions  about  the  child-angel 
that  will  come  whenever  I  begin  to  describe 
tier." 

"It  strikes  me,  though,  that  you  are  getting 
on  pretty  well.  You  were  speaking  of  'love 
and  tenderness.'  Well?" 

"Well,  she  lay  there  senseless,  you  know, 
and  I  gently  unclasped  her  hands  and  began  to 


21 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


'  ^§5u 


"l   BENT   DOWN   CLOSE." 


rub  them.  I  think  the  motion  of  carrying  her, 
and  the  fresh  air,  had  both  produced  a  favora 
ble  effect ;  for  I  had  not  rubbed  her  hands  ten 
minutes  when  she  gave  a  low  sigh.  Then  I 
rubbed  on,  and  her  lips  moved.  I  bent  down 
close  so  as  to  listen,  and  I  heard  her  say,  in  a 
low  voice, 

"  'Am  I  at  home?' 

"  'Yes,'  said  I,  gently,  for  I  thought  it  was 
best  to  humor  her  delirious  fancy. 

"  Then  she  spoke  again : 

"  '  Is  that  you,  papa  dear  ?' 

"  '  Yes,  darling, '  said  I,  in  a  low  voice ;  and  I 
kissed  her  in  a  kind  of  paternal  way,  so  as  to 
reassure  her,  and  comfort  her,  and  soothe  her, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know." 

At  this  Hawbury  burst  into  a  shout  of  laugh 
ter. 

"What  the  mischief  are  you  making  that 
beastly  row  about  ?"  growled  Dacres. 

"  Excuse  me,  old  boy.  I  couldn't  help  it. 
It  was  at  the  idea  of  your  doing  the  father  so 
gravely. " 

"  Well,  am  I  not  old  enough  to  be  her  father  ? 
What  else  could  I  do  ?  She  had  such  a  plead 


ing,  piteous  way.  By  Jove !  Besides,  how  did 
she  know  any  thing  about  it  ?  It  wasn't  as  if 
she  was  in  her  senses.  She  really  thought  I 
was  her  father,  you  know.  And  I'm  sure  I  al 
most  felt  as  if  I  was,  too. " 

"All  right,  old  man,  don't  get  huffy.  Drive 
on." 

"  Well,  you  know,  she  kept  her  eyes  closed, 
and  didn't  say  another  word  till  she  heard  the 
voice  of  Ethel  at  a  distance.  Then  she  opened 
her  eyes,  and  got  up  on  her  feet.  Then  there 
was  no  end  of  a  row — kissing,  crying,  congratu 
lating,  reproaching,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
I  withdrew  to  a  respectful  distance  and  waited. 
After  a  time  they  both  came  to  me,  and  the 
child-angel  gave  me  a  look  that  made  me  long 
to  be  a  father  to  her  again.  She  held  out  her 
little  hand,  and  I  took  it  and  pressed  it,  with 
my  heart  beating  awfully.  I  was  horribly  em 
barrassed. 

"  '  I'm  awfully  grateful  to  you,'  she  said ;  'I'm 
sure  I'd  do  any  thing  in  the  world  to  repay  you. 
I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  would  have  become 
of  me  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you.  And  I  hope 
you'll  excuse  me  for  putting  you  to  so  much 


22 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


trouble.  And,  oh  !'  she  concluded,  halt  to  her 
self,  '  what  will  Kitty  say  now  ?'  " 

"Kitty!     Who's  Kitty?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"All  right.  Never  mind.  Drive  on,  old 
chap." 

"  Well,  I  mumbled  something  or  other,  and 
then  offered  to  go  and  get  their  carriage.  But 
they  would  not  hear  of  it.  The  child-angel 
said  she  could  walk.  This  I  strongly  dissuaded 
her  from  doing,  and  Ethel  insisted  that  the  men 
should  carry  her.  This  was  done,  and  in  a 
short  time  we  got  back  to  the  Hermitage,  where 
the  old  lady  was  in  no  end  of  a  worry.  In  the 
midst  of  the-  row  I  slipped  away,  and  waited 
till  the  carriage  drove  off.  Then  I  followed  at 
a  sufficient  distance  not  to  be  observed,  and 
saw  where  their  house  was." 


m   4 


TUB   MEETING. 

CHAPTER  V. 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  BLUNDERS. 

DACRES  paused  now,  and  lighting  a  fresh  ci 
gar,  smoked  away  at  it  in  silence,  with  long  and 
solemn  and  regular  puffs.  Hawbury  watched 
him  for  some  time,  with  a  look  of  dreamy  cu 
riosity  and  lazy  interest.  Then  he  rose,  and 
dawdled  about  the  room  for  a  few  minutes. 
Then  he  lighted  a  cigar,  and  finally,  resuming 
his  seat,  he  said : 

'By  Jove!" 
acres  puffed  on. 

•'I'm  beginning  to  think,"  said  Hawbury, 
"  that  your  first  statement  is  correct.  You  are 
shot,  my  boy — hit  hard — and  all  that ;  and  now 
I  should  like  to  ask  you  one  question." 

"  Ask  away." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?  Do 
you  intend  to  pursue  the  acquaintance  ?" 

"  Of  course.     Why  not  ?" 


"What  do  you  intend  to  do  next?" 

"  Next  ?  Why,  call  on  her,  and  inquire 
after  her  health." 

"Very  good." 

"Well,  have  you  any  thing  to  say  against 
that  ?" 

"Certainly  not.  Only  it  surprises  me  a 
little." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  never  thought  of  Scone  Dacres 
as  a  marrying  man,  and  can't  altogether  grap 
ple  with  the  idea." 

"I  don't  see  why  a  fellow  shouldn't  marry 
if  he  wants  to,"  said  Dacres.  "  What's  the 
matter  with  me  that  I  shouldn't  get  married  as 
well  as  lots  of  fellows  ?" 

"No  reason  in  the  world,  my  dear  boy. 
Marry  as  many  wives  as  you  choose.  My  re 
mark  referred  merely  to  my  own  idea  of  you, 
and  not  to  any  thing  actually  innate  m  your 
character.  So  don't  get  huffy  at  a  fellow." 

Some  further  conversation  followed,  and  Da 
cres  finally  took  his  departure,  full  of  thoughts 
about  his  new  acquaintance,  and  racking  his 
brains  to  devise  some  way  of  securing  access 
to  her. 

On  the  following  evening  he  made  his  ap 
pearance  once  more  at  Hawbury's  rooms. 

"Well,  old  man,  what's  up?  Any  thing 
more  about  the  child-angel  ?" 

"  Well,  a  little.     I've  found  out  her  name." 

"Ah!     What  is  it?" 

"Fay.     Her  name  is  Minnie  Fay." 

"  Minnie  Fay.  I  never  heard  of  the  name 
before.  Who  are  her  people  ?" 

"She  is  traveling  with  Lady  Dalrymple." 

'  The  Dowager,  I  suppose  ?" 

'Yes." 

Who  are  the  other  ladies  ?" 
Wellj  I  don't  exactly  remember." 
Didn't  you  find  out?" 

'  Yes  ;  I  heard  all  their  names,  but  I've  for 
gotten.  I  know  one  of  them  is  the  child- 
angel's  sister,  and  the  other  is  her  cousin.  The 
one  I  saw  with  her  was  probably  the  sister." 

"What,  the  one  named  Ethel?" 

"Yes." 

"  Ethel— Ethel  Fay.  H'm,''  said  Hawbury, 
in  a  tone  of  disappointment.  "I  knew  it  would 
be  so.  There  are  so  many  Ethels  about." 

"What's  that?" 

"  Oh,  nothing.  I  once  knew  a  girl  namea 
Ethel,  and —  Well,  I  had  a  faint  idea  that  it 
would  be  odd  if  this  should  be  the  one.  But 
there's  no  such  chance." 

"Oh,  the  name  Ethel  is  common  enough." 

"  Well,  and  didn't  you  find  out  any  thing 
about  her  people?" 

"  Whose— Ethel's  ?" 

"Your  child-angel's  people." 

"No.  What  do  I  care  about  her  people? 
They  might  be  Jews  or  Patagonians  for  all  I 
oare." 

"  Still  I  should  think  your  interest  in  her 
would  make  you  ask." 

"Oh  no;  my  interest  refers  to  herself,  not 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


23 


to  her  relatives.     Her  sister  Ethel  is  certainly 
a  deuced  pretty  girl,  though.'" 

"  Sconey,  my  boy,  I'm  afraid  you're  getting 
demoralized.  Why,  I  remember  the  time  when 
you  regarded  the  whole  female  race  with  a  lofty 
scorn  and  a  profound  indifference  that  was  a 
perpetual  rebuke  to  more  inflammable  natures. 
But  now  what  a  change !  Here  you  are,  with 
a  finely  developed  eye  for  female  beauty,  actu 
ally  reveling  in  dreams  of  child-angels  and 
their  sisters.  By  Jove  !" 

"Nonsense,"  said  Dacres. 

"  Well,  drive  on,  and  tell  all  about  it.  You've 
seen  her,  of  course?" 

"  Oh  yes." 

"Did  you  call?" 

"  Yes ;  she  was  not  at  home.  I  went  away 
with  a  snubbed  and  subdued  feeling,  and  rode 
along  near  the  Villa  Reale,  when  suddenly  I 
met  the  carriage  with  Lady  Dalrymple  and  the 
child-angel.  She  knew  me  at  once,  and  gave 
a  little  start.  Then  she  looked  awfully  embar 
rassed.  Then  she  turned  to  Lady  Dalrymple ; 
and  by  the  time  I  had  got  up  the  carriage  had 
stopped,  and  the  ladies  both  looked  at  me  and 
bowed.  I  went  up,  and  they  both  held  out 
their  hands.  Lady  Dalrymple  then  made'some 
remarks  expressive  of  gratitude,  while  the 
child-angel  sat  and  fastened  her  wonderful  eyes 
on  me,  and  threw  at  me  such  a  pleading,  touch 
ing,  entreating,  piteous,  grateful,  beseeching 
look,  that  I  fairly  collapsed. 

"When  Lady  Dalrymple  stopped,  she  turned 
to  her  and  said  : 

"  '  And  oh,  aunty  darling,  did  you  ever  hear 
of  any  thing  like  it  ?  It  was  so  brave.  Wasn't 
it  an  awfully  plucky  thing  to  do,  now  ?  And  I 
was  really  inside  the  crater !  I'm  sure  /  never 
could  have  done  such  a  thing — no,  not  even  for 
my  own  papa!  Oh,  how  I  do  wish  I  could  do 
something  to  show  how  awfully  grateful  I  am ! 
And,  aunty  darling,  I  do  wish  you'd  tell  me 
what  to  do.' 

"All  this  quite  turned  my  head,  and  I 
couldn't  say  any  thing ;  but  sat  on  my  saddle, 
devouring  the  little  thing  with  my  eyes,  and 
drinking  in  the  wonderful  look  which  she  threw 
at  me.  At  last  the  carriage  started,  and  the 
ladies,  with  a  pleasant  smile,  drove  on.  I  think 
I  stood  still  there  for  about  five  minutes,  until 
I  was  nearly  run  down  by  one  of  those  beastly 
Neapolitan  caleches  loaded  with  twenty  or 
thirty  natives." 

"See  here,  old  man,  what  a  confoundedly 
good  memory  you  have!  You  remember  no 
end  of  a  lot  of  things,  and  give  all  her  speeches 
verbatim.  What  a  capital  newspaper  reporter 
you'd  make!" 

"Oh,  it's  only  her  words,  you  know.     She 
quickens  my  memory,  and  makes  a  different 
man  of  me." 
"By  Jove!" 

"Yes,  old  chap,  a  different  man  altogether." 
"So  I  say,  by  Jove!     Head  turned,  eyes 
distorted,   heart    generally   upset,    circulation 
brought  up  to  fever  point,  peace  of  mind  gone, 


and  a  general  mania  in  the  place  of  the  old 
self-reliance  and  content." 

"  Not  content,  old  boy ;  I  never  had  much 
of  that." 

"  Well,  we  won't  argue,  will  we  ?  But  as  to 
the  child-angel — what  next?  You'll  call  again?" 

"  Of  course." 

"When?" 

"To-morrow." 

"Strike  while  the  iron  is  hot,  hey?  Well, 
old  man,  I'll  stand  by  you.  Still  I  wish  you 
could  find  out  who  her  people  are,  just  to  satis 
fy  a  legitimate  curiosity." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  the  Fays,  but  Lady 
Dalrymple  is  her  aunt ;  and  I  know,  too,  that 
she  is  a  niece  of  Sir  Gilbert  Biggs." 

' '  What ! "  cried  Hawbury,  starting.  "  Who  ? 
Sir  what  ?" 

"Sir  Gilbert  Biggs." 

"Sir  Gilbert  Biggs?" 

"Yes." 

"  Sir  Gilbert  Biggs  !  By  Jove  !  Are  you 
sure  you  are  right  ?  Come,  now.  Isn't  there 
some  mistake  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  a  mistake ;  she's  a  niece  of 
Sir  Gilbert.  I  remember  that,  because  the 
name  is  a  familiar  one." 

" Familiar J"  repeated  Hawbury;  "I  should 
think  so.  By  Jove ! " 

Hawbury  here  relapsed  into  silence,  and  sat 
with  a  frown  on  his  face,  and  a  puzzled  expres 
sion.  At  times  he  would  mutter  such  words 
as,  "Deuced  odd!"  "Confounded  queer!" 
"What  a  lot!"  "By  Jove!"  while  Dacres 
looked  at  him  in  some  surprise. 

"Look  here,  old  fellow!"  said  he  at  last. 
"  Will  you  have  the  kindness  to  inform  me  what 
there  is  in  the  little  fact  I  just  mentioned  to  up 
set  a  man  of  your  size,  age,  fighting  weight, 
and  general  coolness  of  blood?" 

"Well,  there  is  a  deuced  odd  coincidence 
about  it,  that's  all. " 

"  Coincidence  with  what  ?" 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  some  other  time.  It's  a  sore 
subject,  old  fellow.  Another  time,  my  boy. 
I'll  only  mention  now  that  it's  the  cause  of  my 
present  absence  from  England.  There's  a  both 
er  that  I  don't  care  to  encounter,  and  Sir  Gil 
bert  Biggs's  nieces  are  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

"You  don't  mean  this  one,  I  hope?"  cried 
Dacres,  in  some  alarm. 

"  Heaven  forbid !  ByJove!  No.   Ihopenot." 

"No,  I  hope  not,  by  Jove!"  echoed  the  other. 

"Well,  old  man,"  said  Hawbury,  after  a  fit 
of  silence,  "  I  suppose  you'll  push  matters  on 
now,  hard  and  fast,  and  launch  yourself  into 
matrimony  ?" 

"Well — I — suppose — so,"  said  Dacres,  hes 
itatingly. 

"You  suppose  so.  Of  course  yon  will. 
Don't  I  know  you,  old  chap  ?  Impetuous, 
tenacious  of  purpose,  iron  will,  one  idea,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing.  Of  course  you  will ;  and 
you'll  be  married  in  a  month." 

"Well,"  said  Dacres,  in  the  same  hesitating 
way,  "not  so  soon  as  that,  I'm  afraid." 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"Why  not?" 

"  Why,  I  have  to  get  the  lady  first." 

"  The  lady ;  oh,  she  seems  to  be  willing 
enough,  judging  from  your  description.  Her 
pleading  look  at  you.  Why,  man,  there  was 
love  at  first  sight.  Then  tumbling  down  the 
crater  of  a  volcano,  and  getting  fished  out. 
Why,  man,  what  woman  could  resist  a  claim 
like  that,  especially  when  it  is  enforced  by  a 
man  like  Scone  Dacres  ?  And,  by  Jove  !  Sco- 
ney,  allow  me  to  inform  you  that  I've  always 
considered  you  a  most  infernally  handsome 
man ;  and  what's  more,  my  opinion  is  worth 
something,  by  Jove !" 

Hereupon  Hawbury  stretched  his  head  and 
shoulders  back,  and  pulled  away  with  each 
hand  at  his  long  yellow  pendent  whiskers.  Then 
he  yawned.  And  then  he  slowly  ejaculated, 

"By  Jove!" 

"Well,"  said  Dacres,  thoughtfully,  "there 
is  something  in  what  you  say  ;  and,  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  think  there's  not  a  bad  chance  for  me, 
so  far  as  the  lady  herself  is  concerned ;  but  the 
difficulty  is  not  in  that  quarter." 

"  Not  in  that  quarter !  Why,  where  the  mis 
chief  else  could  there  be  any  difficulty,  man  ?" 

Dacres  was  silent. 

"You're  eager  enough?" 

Dacres  nodded  his  head  sadly. 

"  Eager !  why,  eager  isn't  the  word.  You're 
mad,  man — mad  as  a  March  hare!  So  go  in 
and  win." 

Dacres  said  nothing. 

"You're  rich,  not  over  old,  handsome,  well 
born,  well  bred,  and  have  saved  the  lady's  life 
by  extricating  her  from  the  crater  of  a  volcano. 
She  seems  too  young  and  childlike  to  have  had 
any  other  affairs.  She's  probably  just  out  of 
school ;  not  been  into  society ;  not  come  out ; 
just  the  girl.  Confound  these  girls,  I  say,  that 
have  gone  through  engagements  with  other  fel 
lows  !" 

"Oh,  as  to  that,"  said  Dacres,  "this  little 
thing  is  just  like  a  child,  and  in  her  very  sim 
plicity  does  not  know  what  love  is.  Engage 
ment  !  By  Jove,  I  don't  believe  she  knows  the 
meaning  of  the  word !  She's  perfectly  fresh, 
artless,  simple,  and  guileless.  I  don't  believe 
she  ever  heard  a  word  of  sentiment  or  tender 
ness  from  any  man  in  her  life." 

"  Very  likely  ;  so  where's  the  difficulty?" 

"  Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  the  difficulty  is  in 
my  own  affairs." 

"  Your  affairs !  Odd,  too.  What's  up?  I 
didn't  know  any  thing  had  happened.  That's 
too  infernal  bad,  too." 

"Oh,  it's  nothing  of  that  sort;  money's  all 
right ;  no  swindle.  It's  an  affair  of  another 
character  altogether." 

"Oh!" 

"And  one,  too,  that  makes  me  think  that — " 

He  hesitated. 

"That  what?" 

"That  I'd  better  start  for  Australia." 

"Australia!" 

"Yes." 


"What's  the  meaning  of  that?" 

"Why,"  said  Dacres,  gloomily,  "it  means 
giving  up  the  child-angel,  and  trying  to  forget 
her — if  I  ever  can." 

"Forget  her!  What's  the  meaning  of  all 
this?  Why,  man,  five  minutes  ago  you  were 
all  on  fire  about  her,  and  now  you  talk  quietly 
about  giving  her  up  !  I'm  all  adrift." 

"Well,  it's  a  mixed  up  matter." 

"  What  is  ?" 

"My  affair." 

"Your  affair;  something  that  has  happen 
ed?" 

"Yes.  It's  a  sore  matter,  and  I  don't  care 
to  speak  about  it  just  now." 

"Oh!" 

"And  it's  the  real  cause  why  I  don't  go  back 
to  England." 

"The  mischief  it  is!  Why,  Dacres,  I'll  be 
hanged  if  you're  not  using  the  very  words  I 
myself  used  a  few  minutes  ago." 

"  Am  I  ?"  said  Dacres,  gloomily. 

"  You  certainly  are  ;  and  that  makes  me 
think  that  our  affairs  are  in  a  similar  complica 
tion." 

"  Oh  no  ;  mine  is  very  peculiar." 

"Well,  there's  one  thing  I  should  like  to  ask, 
and  you  needn't  answer  unless  you  like." 

"Well?" 

"Doesn't  your  difficulty  arise  from  some  con 
founded  woman  or  other  ?" 

"Well — yes." 

"  By  Jove,  I  knew  it !  And,  old  fellow,  I'm 
in  the  same  situation." 


"  BY   JOVE,  I   KNEW   IT  !" 

"  Oh  ho  !  So  you're  driven  away  from  En 
gland  by  a  woman  ?" 

"  Exactly." 

Dacres  sighed  heavily. 

"Yours  can't  be  as  bad  as  mine,"  said  he, 
with  a  dismal  look.  "  Mine  is  the  worst  scrape 
that  ever  you  heard  of.  And  look  at  me  now, 
with  the  child-angel  all  ready  to  take  me,  and 
me  not  able  to  be  taken.  Confound  the  abom 
inable  complications  of  an  accursed  civilization, 
I  say !" 

"And  I  say,  Amen!"  said  Hawbury. 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


25 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE     FIERY     TRIAL. 

"SEE  here,  old  chap,"  said  Hawbury,  "I'm 
going  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it." 

"Of  what?" 

"Of  my  affair." 

"That's  right,"  said  Dacres,  dolefully.  "I 
should  like  of  all  things  to  hear  it." 

"  You  see  I  wouldn't  tell  you,  only  you  your 
self  turn  out  to  be  in  a  similar  situation,  and 
so  what  I  have  to  say  may  prove  of  use  to  you. 
At  any  rate,  you  may  give  me  some  useful  sug 
gestion. 

"  Very  well,  then, "  continued  Hawbury — ' '  to 
begin.  You  may  remember  that  I  told  you 
when  we  met  here  where  I  had  been  passing 
the  time  since  I  saw  you  last. " 

Dacres  nodded  assent. 

"  Well,  about  two  years  ago  I  was  in  Cana 
da.  I  went  there  for  sport,  and  plunged  at 
once  into  the  wilderness.  And  let  me  tell 
you  it's  a  very  pretty  country  for  hunting. 
Lots  of  game — fish,  flesh,  and  fowl — from  the 
cariboo  down  to  the  smallest  trout  that  you 
would  care  to  hook.  Glorious  country ;  mag 
nificent  forests  waiting  for  the  lumberman;  air 
that  acts  on  you  like  wine,  or  even  better ;  riv 
ers  and  lakes  in  all  directions ;  no  end  of  sport 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know.  Have  you 
ever  been  in  Canada  ?" 

"  Only  traveled  through." 

"Well,  the  next  time  you  feel  inclined  for 
high  art  sport  we'll  go  together,  and  have  no 
end  of  fun — that  is,  if  you're  not  married  and 
done  for,  which,  of  course,  you  will  be.  No  mat 
ter.  I  was  saying  that  I  was  in  a  fine  country. 
I  spent  a  couple  of  months  there  with  two  or 
three  Indians,  and  at  length  started  for  Ottawa 
on  my  way  home.  The  Indians  put  me  on  the 
right  path,  after  which  I  dismissed  them,  and 
set  out  alone  with  my  gun  and  fishing-rod. 

"  The  first  day  was  all  very  well,  and  I  slept 
well  enough  the  first  night ;  but  on  the  morn 
ing  of  the  second  day  I  found  the  air  full  of 
smoke.  However,  I  did  not  giv,e  much  thought 
to  that,  for  there  had  been  a  smoky  look  about 
the  sky  for  a  week,  and  the  woods  are  always 
burning  there,  I  believe,  in  one  place  or  an 
other.  I  kept  on,  and  shot  enough  for  food, 
and  thus  the  second  day  passed.  That  evening 
the  air  was  quite  suffocating,  and  it  was  as  hot 
as  an  oven.  I  struggled  through  the  night,  I 
don't  know  how ;  and  then  on  the  third  day 
made  another  start.  This  third  day  was  abom 
inable.  The  atmosphere  was  beastly  hot ;  the 
sky  was  a  dull  yellow,  and  the  birds  seemed  to 
have  all  disappeared.  As  I  went  on  it  grew 
worse,  but  I  found  it  was  not  because  the  fires 
were  in  front  of  me.  On  the  contrary,  they 
were  behind  me,  and  were  driving  on  so  that 
they  were  gradually  approaching  nearer.  I 
could  do  my  thirty  miles  a  day  even  in  that 
rough  country,  but  the  fires  could  do  more.  At 
last  I  came  into  a  track  that  was  a  little  wider 
than  the  first  one.  As  I  went  on  I  met  cattle 


which  appeared  stupefied.  Showers  of  dust 
were  in  the  air ;  the  atmosphere  was  worse 
than  ever,  and  I  never  had  such  difficulty  in 
my  life  in  walking  along.  I  had  to  throw 
away  my  rifle  and  fishing-rod,  and  was  just 
thinking  of  pitching  my  clothes  after  them, 
when  suddenly  I  turned  a  bend  in  the  path, 
and  met  a  young  girl  full  in  the  face. 

"By  Jove !  I  swear  I  never  was  so  astound 
ed  in  my  life.  I  hurried  up  to  her,  and  just 
began  to  ask  where  I  was,  when  she  interrupt 
ed  me  with  a  question  of  the  same  kind.  By- 
the-way,  I  forgot  to  say  that  she  was  on 
horseback.  The  poor  devil  of  a  horse  seemed 
to  have  had  a  deuced  hard  time  of  it  too,  for  he 
was  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  though  wheth 
er  that  arose  from  fatigue  or  fright  I  don't  know. 
Perhaps  it  was  both. 

"  Well,  the  girl  was  evidently  very  much 
alarmed.  She  was  awfully  pale ;  she  was  a 
monstrous  pretty  girl  too — the  prettiest  by  all 
odds  I  ever  saw,  and  that's  saying  a  good  deal. 
By  JoVe !  Well,  it  turned  out  that  she  had  been 
stopping  in  the  back  country  for  a  month,  at  a 
house  somewhere  up  the  river,  with  her  father. 
Her  father  had  gone  down  to  Ottawa  a  week  be 
fore,  and  was  expected  back  on  this  day.  She 
had  come  out  to  meet  him,  and  had  lost  her 
way.  She  had  been  out  for  hours,  and  was 
completely  bewildered.  She  was  also  fright 
ened  at  the  fires,  which  now  seemed  to  be  all 
around  us.  This  she  told  me  in  a  few  words, 
and  asked  if  I  knew  where  the  river  was. 

"  Of  course  I  knew  no  more  than  she  did, 
and  it  needed  only  a  few  words  from  me  to  show 
her  that  I  was  as  much  in  the  dark  as  she  was. 
I  began  to  question  her,  however,  as  to  this  riv 
er,  for  it  struck  me  that  in  the  present  state  of 
affairs  a  river  would  not  be  a  bad  thing  to  have 
near  one.  In  answer  to  my  question  she  said 
that  she  had  come  upon  this  road  from  the 
woods  on  the  left,  and  therefore  it  was  evi 
dent  that  the  river  lay  in  that  direction. 

"  I  assured  her  that  I  would  do  whatever  lay 
in  my  power ;  and  with  that  I  walked  on  in  the 
direction  in  which  I  had  been  going,  while  she 
rode  by  my  side.  Some  further  questions  as  to 
the  situation  of  the  house  where  she  had  been 
staying  showed  me  that  it  was  on  the  banks  of 
the  river  about  fifty  miles  above  Ottawa.  By 
my  own  calculations  I  was  about  that  distance 
away.  It  seemed  to  me,  then,  that  she  had  got 
lost  in  the  woods,  and  had  wandered  thus  over 
some  trail  to  the  path  where  she  had  met  me. 
Every  thing  served  to  show  me  that  the  river 
lay  to  the  left,  and  so  I  resolved  to  turn  in  at 
the  first  path  which  I  reached. 

"  At  length,  after  about  two  miles,  we  came 
to  a  path  which  went  into  the  woods.  My  com 
panion  was  sure  that  this  was  the  very  one  by 
which  she  had  come  out,  and  this  confirmed  the 
impression  which  the  sight  of  it  had  given  me. 
I  thought  it  certainly  must  lead  toward  the  riv 
er.  So  we  turned  into  this  path.  I  went  first, 
and  she  followed,  and  so  we  went  for  about  a 
couple  of  miles  further. 


2G 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"All  this  time  the  heat  had  been  getting 
worse  and  worse.  The  air  was  more  smoky 
than  ever ;  my  mouth  was  parched  and  dry.  I 
breathed  with  difficulty,  and  could  scarcely  drag 
one  leg  after  another.  The  lady  was  almost  as 
much  exhausted  as  I  was,  and  suffered  acutely, 
as  I  could  easily  see,  though  she  uttered  not  a 
word  of  complaint.  Her  horse  also  suffered  ter 
ribly,  and  did  not  seem  able  to  bear  her  weight 
much  longer.  The  poor  brute  trembled  and 
staggered,  and  once  or  twice  stopped,  so  that  it 
was  difficult  to  start  him  again.  The  road  had 
gone  in  a  winding  way,  but  was  not  so  crooked 
as  I  expected.  I  afterward  found  that  she  had 
gone  by  other  paths  until  she  had  found  herself 
in  thick  woods,  and  then  on  trying  to  retrace 
her  way  she  had  strayed  into  this  path.  If  she 
had  turned  to  the  left  on  first  reaching  it,  in 
stead  of  to  the  right,  the  fate  of  each  of  us  would 
have  been  different.  Our  meeting  was  no  doubt 
the  salvation  of  both. 

"There  was  a  wooded  eminence  in  front, 
which  we  had  been  steadily  approaching  for 
some  time.  At  last  we  reached  the  top.  and 
here  a  scene  burst  upon  us  which  was  rather 
startling.  The  hill  was  high  enough  to  com 
mand  an  extensive  view,  and  the  first  thing 
that  we  saw  was  a  vast  extent  of  woods  and 
water  and  smoke.  By-and-by  we  were  able  to 
distinguish  each.  The  water  was  the  river,  which 
could  be  seen  for  miles.  Up  the  river  toward 
the  left  the  smoke  arose  in  great  volumes,  cov 
ering  every  thing ;  while  in  front  of  us,  and  im 
mediately  between  us  and  the  river,  there  was  a 
line  of  smoke  which  showed  that  the  fires  had 
penetrated  there  and  had  intercepted  us. 

"  We  stood  still  in  bewilderment.  I  looked 
all  around.  To  go  back  was  as  bad  as  to  go 
forward,  for  there,  also,  a  line  of  smoke  arose 
which  showed  the  progress  of  the  flames.  To 
the  right  there  was  less  smoke ;  but  in  that 
direction  there  was  only  a  wilderness,  through 
which  we  could  not  hope  to  pass  for  any  dis 
tance.  The  only  hope  was  the  river.  If  we 
could  traverse  the  flames  in  that  direction,  so 
as  to  reach  the  water,  we  would  be  safe.  In  a 
few  words  I  communicated  my  decision  to  my 
companion.  She  said  nothing,  but  bowed  her 
head  in  acquiescence. 

"  Without  delaying  any  longer  we  resumed 
our  walk.  After  about  a  mile  we  found  our 
selves  compelled  once  more  to  halt.  The  view 
here  was  worse  than  ever.  The  path  was  now 
as  wide  as  an  ordinary  road,  and  grew  wider 
still  as  it  went  on.  It  was  evidently  used  to 
haul  logs  down  to  the  river,  and  as  it  approach 
ed  the  bank  it  grew  steadily  wider ;  but  be 
tween  us  and  the  river  the  woods  were  all  burn 
ing.  The  first  rush  of  the  fire  was  over,  and 
now  we  looked  forward  and  saw  a  vast  array  of 
columns — the  trunks  of  burned  trees — some 
blackened  and  charred,  others  glowing  red. 
The  ground  below  was  also  glowing  red,  with 
blackened  spaces  here  and  there. 

"  Still  the  burned  tract  was  but  a  strip,  and 
there  lay  our  hope.  The  fire,  by  some  strange 


means,  had  passed  on  a  track  not  wider  than  a 
hundred  yards,  and  this  was  what  had  to  be 
traversed  by  us.  The  question  was,  whether 
we  could  pass  through  that  or  not.  The  same 
question  came  to  both  of  us,  and  neither  of  us 
said  a  word.  But  before  I  could  ask  the  lady 
about  it,  her  horse  became  frightened  at  the 
flames.  I  advised  her  to  dismount,  for  I  knew 
that  the  poor  brute  could  never  be  forced 
through  those  fires.  She  did  so,  and  the  horse, 
with  a  horrible  snort,  turned  and  galloped  wild 
ly  away. 

"  I  now  looked  around  once  more,  and  saw 
that  there  was  no  escape  except  in  front.  The 
flames  were  encircling  us,  and  a  vast  cloud  of 
smoke  surrounded  us  every  where,  rising  far  up 
and  rolling  overhead.  Cinders  fell  in  immense 
showers,  and  the  fine  ashes,  with  which  the  air 
was  filled,  choked  us  and  got  into  our  eyes. 

"  '  There  is  only  one  chance,'  said  I ;  '  and 
that  is  to  make  a  dash  for  the  river.  Can  you 
do  it  ?' 

"  '  I'll  try,'  she  said. 

"  '  We'll  have  to  go  through  the  fires.' 

"  She  nodded. 

"  '  WTell,  then,'  I  said,  'do  as  I  say.  Take 
off  your  sacque  and  wrap  it  around  your  head 
and  shoulders.' 

"  She  took  off  her  sacque  at  this.  It  was  a 
loose  robe  of  merino  or  alpaca,  or  something 
of  that  sort,  and  very  well  suited  for  what  I 
wanted.  I  wrapped  it  round  her  so  as  to  pro 
tect  her  face,  head,  and  shoulders  ;  and  taking 
off  my  coat  I  did  the  same. 

"  'Now,'  said  I,  '  hold  your  breath  as  well  as 
you  can.  You  may  keep  your  eyes  shut.  Give 
me  your  hand — I'll  lead  you.' 

"  Taking  her  hand  I  led  her  forward  at  a 
rapid  pace.  Once  she  fell,  but  she  quickly  re 
covered  herself,  and  soon  we  reached  the  edge 
of  the  flames. 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  my  boy,  the  heat  was 
terrific,  and  the  sight  was  more  so.  The  river 
was  not  more  than  a  hundred  yards  away,  but 
between  us  and  it  there  lay  what  seemed  as  bad 
as  the  burning  fiery  furnace  of  Messrs.  Sha- 
drach,  Meshach,  and  Abednego.  If  I  were  now 
standing  there,  I  don't  think  I  could  face  it. 
But  then  I  was  with  the  girl ;  I  had  to  save  her. 
Fire  was  behind  us,  racing  after  us ;  water  lay 
in  front.  Once  there  and  we  were  safe.  It 
was  not  a  time  to  dawdle  or  hesitate,  I  can  as 
sure  yon. 

"  '  Now,'  said  I,  '  run  for  your  life !' 

"  Grasping  her  hand  more  firmly,  I  started 
off  with  her  at  the  full  run.  The  place  was  ter 
rible,  and  grew  worse  at  every  step.  The  road 
here  was  about  fifty  feet  wide.  On  each  side 
was  the  burning  forest,  with  a  row  of  burned 
trees  like  fiery  columns,  and  the  moss  and 
underbrush  still  glowing  beneath.  To  pass 
through  that  was  a  thing  that  it  don't  do  to 
look  back  upon.  The  air  was  intolerable.  I 
wrapped  my  coat  tighter  over  my  head  ;  my 
arms  were  thus  exposed,  and  I  felt  the  heat  on 
my  hands.  But  that  was  nothing  to  the  tor- 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


27 


TUB   FIEKY   TBIAL. 


ments  that  I  endured  from  trying  to  breathe. 
Besides  this,  the  enormous  effort  of  keeping  up 
a  run  made  breathing  all  the  more  difficult.  A 
feeling  of  despair  came  over  me.  Already  we 
had  gone  half  the  distance,  but  at  that  moment 
the  space  seemed  lengthened  out  interminably, 
and  I  looked  in  horror  at  the  rest  of  the  way, 
with  a  feeling  of  the  utter  impossibility  of  trav 
ersing  it. 

"  Suddenly  the  lady  fell  headlong.  I  stopped 
and  raised  her  up.  My  coat  fell  off;  I  felt  the 
fiery  air  all  round  my  face  and  head.  I  called 
and  screamed  to  the  lady  as  I  tried  to  raise  her 
up ;  but  she  said  nothing.  She  was  as  lifeless 
as  a  stone. 

"  Well,  my  boy,  I  thought  it  was  all  up  with 
me  ;  but  I,  at  least,  could  stand,  though  I  did 
not  think  that  I  could  take  another  breath.  As 
for  the  lady,  there  was  no  help  for  it ;  so  I  grasped 
her  with  all  my  strength,  still  keeping  her  head 
covered  as  well  as  I  could,  and  slung  her  over 
my  shoulders.  Then  away  I  ran.  I  don't  re 
member  much  after  that.  I  must  have  lost  my 
senses  then,  and,  what  is  more,  I  must  have  ac 
complished  the  rest  of  the  journey  in  that  semi- 
unconscious  state. 

"  What  I  do  remember  is  this — a  wild  plunge 
into  the  water ;  and  the  delicious  coolness  that  I 
felt  all  around  restored  me,  and  I  at  once  com 
prehended  all.  The  lady  was  by  my  side  ;  the 
shock  and  the  cool  water  had  restored  her  also. 
She  was  standing  up  to  her  shoulders  just  where 
she  had  fallen,  and  was  panting  and  sobbing.  I 
spoke  a  few  words  of  good  cheer,  and  then  look 
ed  around  for  some  place  of  refuge.  Just  where 
we  stood  there  was  nothing  but  fire  and  deso 
lation,  and  it  was  necessary  to  go  further  away. 
Well,  some  distance  out,  about  half-way  across 
the  river,  I  saw  a  little  island,  with  rocky  sides, 
and  trees  on  the  top.  It  looked  safe  and  cool 
and  inviting.  I  determined  to  try  to  get  there. 
Some  deals  were  in  the  water  by  the  bank, 
which  had  probably  floated  down  from  some 
saw-mill.  I  took  half  a  dozen  of  these,  flung 
two  or  three  more  on  top  of  them,  and  then  told 
the  lady  my  plan.  It  was  to  float  out  to  the 


island  by  means  of  this  raft.  I  offered  to  put 
her'  on  it  and  let  her  float ;  but  she  refused, 
preferring  to  be  in  the  water. 

"The  river  was  pretty  wide  here,  and  the 
water  was  shallow,  so  that  we  were  able  to  wade 
for.  a  long  distance,  pushing  the  raft  before  us. 
At  length  it  became  deep,  and  then  the  lady 
held  on  while  I  floated  and  tried  to  direct  the 
raft  toward  the  island.  I  had  managed  while 
wading  to  guide  the  raft  up  the  stream,  so  that 
when  we  got  into  deep  water  the  current  car 
ried  us  toward  the  island.  At  length  we 
reached  it  without  much  difficulty,  and  then, 
utterly  worn  out,  I  fell  down  on  the  grass,  and 
either  fainted  away  or  fell  asleep. 

"When  I  revived  I  had  several  very  queer 
sensations.  The  first  thing  that  I  noticed  was 
that  I  hadn't  any  whiskers." 

"What!  no  whiskers?" 

"  No — all  gone ;  and  my  eyebrows  and  mus 
tache,  and  every  wisp  of  hair  from  my  head." 

"  See  here,  old  fellow,  do  you  mean  to  say 
that  you've  only  taken  one  year  to  grow  those 
infernally  long  whiskers  that  you  have  now  ?" 

"It's  a  fact,  my  boy!" 

"  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it ;  but  some  fel 
lows  can  do  such  extraordinary  things.  But 
drive  on." 

"  Well,  the  next  thing  I  noticed  was  that  it 
was  as  smoky  as  ever.  Then  I  jumped  up  and 
looked  around.  I  felt  quite  dry,  though  it 
seemed  as  if  I  had  just  come  from  the  river. 
As  I  jumped  up  and  turned  I  saw  my  friend. 
She  looked  much  better  than  she  had.  Her 
clothes  also  were  quite  dry.  She  greeted  me 
with  a  mournful  smile,  and  rose  up  from  the 
trunk  of  a  tree  where  she  had  been  sitting,  and 
made  inquiries  after  my  health  with  the  most 
earnest  and  tender  sympathy. 

"  I  told  her  I  was  all  right,  laughed  about 
my  hair,  and  inquired  very  anxiously  how  she 
was.  She  assured  me  that  she  was  as  well  as 
ever.  Some  conversation  followed ;  and  then, 
to  my  amazement,  I  found  that  I  had  slept  for 
an  immense  time,  or  had  been  unconscious, 
whichever  it  was,  and  that  the  adventure  had 


28 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"AIA  GONE;  MY  EYEUROWB,  AND  MUSTACHE,  AND  EVEBY  WISP  OF  HAIB  FBOM  MY  HEAD." 


taken  place  on  the  preceding  day.  It  was  now 
about  the  middle  of  the  next  day.  You  may 
imagine  how  confounded  I  was  at  that. 

"The  air  was  still  abominably  close  and 
smoky ;  so  I  looked  about  the  island,  and  found 
a  huge  crevice  in  the  rocks,  which  was  almost 
a  cave.  It  was  close  by  the  water,  and  was  far 
cooler  than  outside.  In  fact,  it  was  rather  com 
fortable  than  otherwise.  Here  we  took  refuge, 
and  talked  over  our  situation.  As  far  as  we 
could  see,  the  whole  country  was  burned  up. 
A  vast  cloud  of  smoke  hung  over  all.  One 
comfort  was  that  the  glow  had  ceased  on  the 
river-bank,  and  only  a  blackened  forest  now 
remained,  with  giant  trees  arising,  all  blasted. 
We  found  that  our  stay  would  be  a  protracted 
one. 

"  The  first  thing  that  I  thought  of  was  food. 
Fortunately  I  had  my  hooks  and  lines ;  so  I  cut 
a  pole,  and  fastening  my  line  to  it,  I  succeeded 
in  catching  a  few  fish. 

"  We  lived  there  for  two  days  on  fish  in  that 
manner.  The  lady  was  sad  and  anxious.  I 
tried  to  cheer  her  up.  Her  chief  trouble  was 
the  fear  that  her  father  was  lost.  In  the  course 


of  our  conversations  I  found  out  that  her  name 
was  Ethel  Orne." 

"Ethel  Orne?" 

"Yes." 

"Don't  think  I  ever  heard  the  name  be 
fore.  Orne  ?  No,  I'm  sure  I  haven't.  It  isn't 
Horn  ?" 

"  No ;  Orne— O  R  N  E.  Oh,  there's  no  trou 
ble  about  that. 

"Well,  I  rather  enjoyed  this  island  life,  but 
she  was  awfully  melancholy ;  so  I  hit  upon  a 
plan  for  getting  away.  I  went  to  the  shore  and 
collected  a  lot  of  the  deals  that  I  mentioned, 
and  made  a  very  decent  sort  of  raft.  I  found 
a  pole  to  guide  it  with,  cut  a  lot  of  brush  for 
Ethel,  and  then  we  started,  and  floated  down 
the  river.  We  didn't  have  any  accidents.  The 
only  bother  was  that  she  was  too  confoundedly 
anxious  about  me,  and  wouldn't  let  me  work. 
We  went  ashore  every  evening.  We  caught 
fish  enough  to  eat.  We  were  afloat  three  days, 
and,  naturally  enough,  became  very  well  ac 
quainted." 

Hawbury  stopped,  and  sighed. 

"I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Dacres,"  said  he, 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


29 


"  there  never  lived  a  nobler,  more  generous, 
and  at  the  same  time  a  braver  soul  than  Ethel 
Orne.  She  never  said  a  word  about  gratitude 
and  all  that,  but  there  was  a  certain  quiet  look 
of  devotion  about  her  that  gives  me  a  deuced 
queer  feeling  now  when  I  think  of  it  all." 

"And  I  dare  say —     But  no  matter." 

"What?" 

"  Well,  I  was  only  going  to  remark  that,  un 
der  the  circumstances,  there  might  have  been  a 
good  deal  of  quiet  devotion  about  you." 

Hawbury  made  no  reply,  but  sat  silent  for  a 
time. 

"  Well,  go  on,  man ;  don't  keep  me  in  sus 
pense." 

"  Let  me  see — where  was  I  ?  Oh  !  floating  on 
the  raft.  Well,  we  floated  that  way,  as  I  said, 
for  three  days,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time  we 
reached  a  settlement.  Here  we  found  a  steam 
er,  and  went  on  further,  and  finally  reached 
Ottawa.  Here  she  went  to  the  house  of  a 
friend.  I  called  on  her  as  soon  as  possible, 
and  found  her  in  fearful  anxiety.  She  had 
learned  that  her  father  had  gone  up  with  a  Mr. 
Willoughby,  and  neither  had  been  heard  from. 

"  Startled  at  this  intelligence,  I  instituted  a 
search  myself.  I  could  not  find  out  any  thing, 
but  only  that  there  was  good  reason  to  believe 
that  both  of  the  unhappy  gentlemen  had  per 
ished.  On  returning  to  the  house  to  call  on 
Ethel,  about  a  week  after,  I  found  that  she  had 
received  full  confirmation  of  this  dreadful  intel 
ligence,  and  had  gone  to  Montreal.  It  seems 
that  Willoughby's  wife  was  a  relative  of  Ethel's, 
and  she  had  gone  to  stay  with  her.  I  longed 
to  see  her,  but  of  course  I  could  not  intrude 
upon  her  in  her  grief;  and  so  I  wrote  to  her, 
expressing  all  the  condolence  I  could.  I  told 
her  that  I  was  going  to  Europe,  but  would  re 
turn  in  the  following  year.  I  couldn't  say  any 
more  than  that,  you  know.  It  wasn't  a  time 
for  sentiment,  of  course. 

"  Well,  I  received  a  short  note  in  reply.  She 
said  she  would  look  forward  to  seeing  me  again 
with  pleasure,  and  all  that ;  and  that  she  could 
never  forget  the  days  we  had  spent  together. 

"So  off  I  went,  and  in  the  following  year  I 
returned.  But  on  reaching  Montreal,  what  was 
my  disgust,  on  calling  at  Mrs.  Willoughby's,  to 
find  that  she  had  given  up  her  house,  sold  her 
furniture,  and  left  the  city.  No  one  knew  any 
thing  about  her,  and  they  said  that  she  had  only 
come  to  the  city  a  few  months  before  her  be 
reavement,  and  after  that  had  never  made  any 
acquaintances.  Some  said  she  had  gone  to  the 
United  States  ;  others  thought  she  had  gone  to 
Quebec ;  others  to  England ;  but  no  one  knew 
any  thing  more." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A    STARTLING    REVELATION. 

"!T  seems  to  me,  Hawbury,"  said  Dacres, 
after  a  period  of  thoughtful  silence — "  it  seems 
to  me  that  when  you  talk  of  people  having  their 


heads  turned,  you  yourself  comprehend  the  full 
meaning  of  that  sensation  ?" 

"  Somewhat." 

"  You  knocked  under  at  once,  of  course,  to 
your  Ethel?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  feel  the  same  way  toward  her  yet  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Hit  hard  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  and  that's  what  I'm  coming  to.  The 
fact  is,  my  whole  business  in  life  for  the  last  year 
has  been  to  find  her  out." 

"You  haven't  dawdled  so  much,  then,  as 
people  suppose  ?" 

"  No ;  that's  all  very  well  to  throw  people 
oiF  a  fellow's  scent ;  but  you  know  me  well 
enough,  Dacres ;  and  we  didn't  dawdle  much 
in  South  America,  did  we  ?" 

"  That's  true,  my  boy ;  but  as  to  this  lady, 
what  is  it  that  makes  it  so  hard  for  you  to  find 
her  ?  In  the  first  place,  is  she  an  American  ?" 

"Oh  no." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Oh,  accent,  manner,  tone,  idiom,  and  a 
hundred  other  things.  Why,  of  course,  you 
know  as  well  as  I  that  an  .American  lady  is  as 
different  from  an  English  as  a  French  or  a  Ger 
man  lady  is.  They  may  be  all  equally  ladies, 
but  each  nation  has  its  own  peculiarities." 

"Is  she  Canadian?" 

"Possibly.  It  is  not  always  easy  to  tell  a 
Canadian  lady  from  an  English.  They  imitate 
us  out  there  a  good  deal.  I  could  tell  in  the 
majority  of  cases,  but  there  are  many  who  can 
not  be  distinguished  from  us  very  easily.  And 
Ethel  may  be  one." 

"  Why  mayn't  she  be  English?" 

"She  may  be.  It's  impossible  to  perceive 
any  difference." 

"Have  you  ever  made  any  inquiries  about 
her  in  England  ?" 

"  No ;  I've  not  been  in  England  much,  and 
from  the  way  she  talked  to  me  I  concluded  that 
her  home  was  in  Canada." 

"  Was  her  father  an  Englishman  ?" 

"I  really  don't  know." 

"  Couldn't  you  find  out?" 

"No.  You  see  he  had  but  recently  moved 
to  Montreal,  like  Willoughby  ;  and  I  could  not 
find  any  people  who  were  acquainted  with  him." 

"He  may  have  been  English  all  the  time." 

"Yes." 

"And  she  too." 

"By  Jove!" 

"  And  she  may  be  in  England  now." 

Hawbury  started  to  his  feet,  and  stared  in 
silence  at  his  friend  for  several  minutes. 

"By  Jove!"  he  cried;  "if  I  thought  that,  1 
swear  I'd  start  for  home  this  evening,  and  hunt 
about  every  where  for  the  representatives  of 
the  Orne  family.  But  no — surely  it  can't  be 
possible." 

"  Were  you  in  London  last  season  ?" 

"No." 

"  Well,  how  do  you  know  but  that  she  was 
there?" 


30 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"By  Jove!" 

"And  the  belle  of  the  season,  too?" 

"  She  would  be  if  she  were  there,  by  Jove  !" 

"  Yes,  if  there  wasn't  another  present  that  I 
wot  of." 

"  Well,  we  won't  argue  about  that ;  besides, 
I  haven't  come  to  the  point  yet." 

"The  point?" 

"  Yes,  the  real  reason  why  I'm  here,  when 
I'm  wanted  home." 

"  The  real  reason  ?  Why,  haven't  you  been 
telling  it  to  me  all  along  ?" 

"Well,  no ;  I  haven't  got  to  the  point  yet." 

"  Drive  on,  then,  old  man." 

"Well,  you  know,"  continued  Hawbury,  "aft 
er  hunting  all  through  Canada  I  gave  up  in  de 
spair,  and  concluded  that  Ethel  was  lost  to  me, 
at  least  for  the  present.  That  was  only  about 
six  or  seven  months  ago.  So  I  went  home,  and 
spent  a  month  in  a  shooting-box  on  the  High 
lands  ;  then  I  went  to  Ireland  to  visit  a  friend ; 
and  then  to  London.  While  there  I  got  a  long 
letter  from  my  mother.  The  good  soul  was  con 
vinced  that  I  was  wasting  my  life ;  she  urged 
me  to  settle  down,  and  finally  informed  me  that 
she  had  selected  a  wife  for  me.  Now  I  want 
you  to  understand,  old  boy,  that  I  fully  appre 
ciated  my  mother's  motives.  She  was  quite 
right,  I  dare  say,  about  my  wasting  my  life ; 
quite  right,  too,  about  the  benefit  of  settling 
down ;  and  she  was  also  very  kind  to  take  all 
the  trouble  of  selecting  a  wife  off  my  hands. 
Under  other  circumstances  I  dare  say  I  should 
have  thought  the  matter  over,  and  perhaps  I 
should  have  been  induced  even  to  go  so  far  as 
to  survey  the  lady  from  a  distance,  and  argue 
the  point  with  my  mother  pro  and  con.  But  the 
fact  is,  the  thing  was  distasteful,  and  wouldn't 
bear  thinking  about,  much  less  arguing.  I  was 
too  lazy  to  go  and  explain  the  matter,  and  writ 
ing  was  not  my  forte.  Besides,  I  didn't  want 
to  thwart  my  mother  in  her  plans,  or  hurt  her 
feelings  ;  and  so  the  long  and  the  short  of  it  is, 
I  solved  the  difficulty  and  cut  the  knot  by  cross 
ing  quietly  over  to  Norway.  I  wrote  a  short 
note  to  my  mother,  making  no  allusion  to  her 
project,  and  since  then  I've  been  gradually  work 
ing  my  way  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  map  of 
Europe,  and  here  I  am." 

"  You  didn't  see  the  lady,  then  ?" 

"No." 

"Who  was  she?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"  Don't  know  the  lady  ?" 

"No." 

"  Odd,  too !  Haven't  you  any  idea  ?  Surely 
her  name  was  mentioned  ?" 

"  No ;  my  mother  wrote  in  a  roundabout  style, 
so  as  to  feel  her  way.  She  knew  me,  and  fear 
ed  that  I  might  take  a  prejudice  against  the 
lady.  No  doubt  I  should  have  done  so.  She 
only  alluded  to  her  in  a  general  way." 

"  A  general  way  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  that  is,  you  know,  she  mentioned  the 
fact  that  the  lady  was  a  niece  of  Sir  Gilbert 
Biggs." 


"  What !"  cried  Dacres,  with  a  start. 

"A  niece  of  Sir  Gilbert  Biggs,"  repeated 
Hawbury. 

"  A  niece — of — Sir  Gilbert  Biggs  ?"  said  Da 
cres,  slowly.  "  Good  Lord  !" 

"  Yes ;  and  what  of  that  ?" 

"Very  much.  Don't  you  know  that  Minnie 
Fay  is  a  niece  of  Sir  Gilbert  Biggs  ?" 

"By  Jove!  So  she  is.  I  remember  being 
startled  when  you  told  me  that,  and  for  a  mo 
ment  an  odd  fancy  came  to  me.  I  wondered 
whether  your  child-angel  might  not  be  the 
identical  being  about  whom  my  poor  dear  mo 
ther  went  into  such  raptures.  Good  Lord! 
what  a  joke !  By  Jove !" 

"  A  joke !"  growled  Dacres.  "I  don't  see  any 
joke  in  it.  I  remember  when  you  said  that 
Biggs's  nieces  were  at  the  bottom  of  your  trou 
bles,  I  asked  whether  it  might  be  this  one." 

"  So  you  did,  old  chap ;  and  I  replied  that  I 
hoped  not.  So  you  need  not  shake  your  gory 
locks  at  me,  my  boy." 

"But  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  it." 

"Neither  do  I." 

"Yes,  but  you  see  it  looks  as  though  she  had 
been  already  set  apart  for  you  especially." 

"And  pray,  old  man,  what  difference  can 
that  make,  when  I  don't  set  myself  apart  for 
any  thing  of  the  kind  ?" 

Dacres  sat  in  silence  with  a  gloomy  frown 
over  his  brow. 

"  Besides,  are  you  aware,  my  boy,  of  the  sol 
emn  fact  that  Biggs's  nieces  are  legion  ?"  said 
Hawbury.  "The  man  himself  is  an  infernal 
old  bloke ;  and  as  to  his  nieces — heavens  and 
earth  ! — old  !  old  as  Methuselah  ;  and  as  to 
this  one,  she  must  be  a  grandniece — a  second 
generation.  She's  not  a  true,  full-blooded 
niece.  Now  the  lady  I  refer  to  was  one  of  the 
original  Biggs's  nieces.  There's  no  mistake 
whatever  about  that,  for  I  have  it  in  black  and 
white,  under  my  mother's  own  hand." 

"Oh,  she  would  select  the  best  of  them  for 
you." 

"  No,  she  wouldn't.    How  do  you  know  that  ?" 

"There's  no  doubt  about  that." 

"It  depends  upon  what  you  mean  by  the 
best.  The  one  you  call  the  best  might  not 
seem  so  to  her,  and  so  on.  Now  I  dare  say 
she's  picked  out  for  me  a  great,  raw-boned,  red 
headed  niece,  with  a  nose  like  a  horse.  And 
she  expects  me  to  marry  a  woman  like  that ! 
with  a  pace  like  a  horse !  Good  Lord !" 

And  Hawbury  leaned  back,  lost  in  the  im 
mensity  of  that  one  overwhelming  idea. 

"Besides,"  said  he,  standing  up,  "I  don't 
care  if  she  was  the  angel  Gabriel.  I  don't 
want  any  of  Biggs's  nieces.  I  won't  have  them. 
By  Jove !  And  am  I  to  be  entrapped  into  a 
plan  like  that?  I  want  Ethel.  And  what's 
more,  I  will  have  her,  or  go  without.  The 
child-angel  may  be  the  very  identical  one  that 
my  mother  selected,  and  if  you  assert  that  she 
is,  I'll  be  hanged  if  I'll  argue  the  point.  I  only 
say  this,  that  it  doesn't  alter  my  position  in  the 
slightest  degree.  I  don't  want  her.  I  won't 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


31 


have  her.  I  don't  want  to  see  her.  I  don't 
care  if  the  whole  of  Biggs's  nieces,  in  solemn 
conclave,  with  old  Biggs  at  their  head,  had 
formally  discussed  the  whole  matter,  and  final 
ly  resolved  unanimously  that  she  should  be 
mine.  Good  Lord,  man !  don't  you  understand 
how  it  is  ?  What  the  mischief  do  I  care  about 
any  body  ?  Do  you  think  I  went  through  that 
fiery  furnace  for  nothing  ?  And  what  do  you 
suppose  that  life  on  the  island  meant  ?  Is  all 
that  nothing  ?  Did  you  ever  live  on  an  island 
with  the  child-angel?  Did  you  ever  make  a 
raft  for  her  and  fly  ?  Did  you  ever  float  down 
a  river  current  between  banks  burned  black  by 
raging  fires,  feeding  her,  soothing  her,  com 
forting  her,  and  all  the  while  feeling  in  a  gen 
eral  fever  about  her  ?  You  hauled  her  out  of 
a  crater,  did  you  ?  By  Jove !  And  what  of 
that  ?  Why,  that  furnace  that  I  pulled  Ethel 
out  of  was  worse  than  a  hundred  of  your  cra 
ters.  And  yet,  after  all  that,  you  think  that  I 
could  be  swayed  by  the  miserable  schemes  of  a 
lot  of  Biggs's  nieces !  And  you  scowl  at  a  fel 
low,  and  get  huffy  and  jealous.  By  Jove  !" 

After  this  speech,  which  was  delivered  with 
unusual  animation,  Hawbury  lighted  a, cigar, 
which  he  puffed  at  most  energetically. 

"All  right,  old  boy,"  said  Dacres.  "A  fel 
low's  apt  to  judge  others  by  himself,  you  know. 
Don't  make  any  more  set  speeches,  though.  I 
begin  to  understand  your  position.  Besides, 
after  all — " 

Dacres  paused,  and  the  dark  frown  that  was 
on  his  brow  grew  still  darker. 

"After  all  what?''  asked  Hawbury,  who  now 
began  to  perceive  that  another  feeling  besides 
jealousy  was  the  cause  of  his  friend's  gloomy 
melancholy. 

"Well,  after  all,  you  know,  old  fellow,  I  fear 
I'll  have  to  give  her  up." 

"Give  her  up?" 

"Yes." 

"  That's  what  you  said  .before,  and  you  men 
tioned  Australia,  and  that  rot." 

"The  more  I  think  of  it,"  said  Dacres,  dis 
mally,  and  regarding  the  opposite  wall  with  a 
steady  yet  mournful  stare — "the  more  I  think 
of  it,  the  more  I  see  that  there's  no  such  happi 
ness  in  store  for  me. " 

"Pooh,  man !  what  is  it  all  about ?  This  is 
the  secret  that  you  spoke  about,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Yes;  and  it's  enough  to  put  a  barrier  be 
tween  me  and  her.  Was  I  jealous?  Did  I 
seem  huffy  ?  What  an  idiot  I  must  have  been ! 
Why,  old  man,  I  can't  do  any  thing  or  say  any 
thing." 

"The  man's  mad,"  said  Hawbury,  address 
ing  himself  to  a  carved  tobacco-box  on  the  table. 

"  Mad  ?  Yes,  I  was  mad  enough  in  ever 
letting  myself  be  overpowered  by  this  bright 
dream.  Here  have  I  been  giving  myself  up  to 
a  phantom — an  empty  illusion — and  now  it's  all 
over.  My  eyes  are  open." 

"  You  may  as  well  open  my  eyes  too ;  for  I'll 
be  hanged  if  I  can  see  my  way  through  this  !" 

"Strange!  strange!  strange!"  continued  Da 


cres,  in  a  kind  of  soliloquy,  not  noticing  Haw- 
bury's  words.  "  How  a  man  will  sometimes 
forget  realities,  and  give  himself  up  to  dreams  ! 
It  was  my  dream  of  the  child-angel  that  so 
turned  my  brain.  I  must  see  her  no  more." 

"  Very  well,  old  boy,"  said  Hawbury.  "Now 
speak  Chinese  a  little  for  variety.  I'll  under 
stand  you  quite  as  well.  I  will,  by  Jove !" 

"And  then,  for  a  fellow  that's  had  an  expe 
rience  like  mine — before  and  since,"  continued 
Dacres,  still  speaking  in  the  tone  of  one  who 
was  meditating  aloud — "to  allow  such  an  idea 
even  for  a  moment  to  take  shape  in  his  brain  ! 
What  an  utter,  unmitigated,  unmanageable, 
and  unimprovable  idiot,  ass,  dolt,  and  block 
head  !  Confound  such  a  man !  I  say ;  confound 
him!" 


"CONFOUND  BUOII  A  MAN!  i  SAY." 

And  as  Dacres  said  this  he  brought  his  fist 
down  upon  the  table  near  him  with  such  an 
energetic  crash  that  a  wine-flask  was  sent  spin 
ning  on  the  floor,  where  its  ruby  contents 
splashed  out  in  a  pool,  intermingled  with  frag 
ments  of  glass. 

Dacres  was  startled  by  the  crash,  and  looked 
at  it  for  a  while  in  silence.  Then  he  raised  his 
head  and  looked  at  his  friend.  Hawbury  en 
countered  his  glance  without  any  expression. 
He  merely  sat  and  smoked  and  passed  his  fin 
gers  through  his  pendent  whiskers. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Dacres,  abruptly. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  boy,  a  thousand  times ; 
only  I  hope  you  will  allow  me  to  remark  that 
your  style  is  altogether  a  new  one,  and  during 
the  whole  course  of  our  acquaintance  I  do  not 
remember  seeing  it  before.  You  have  a  mel 
odramatic  way  that  is  overpowering.  Still  I 
don't  see  why  you  should  swear  at  yourself  in 
a  place  like  Naples,  where  there  are  so  many 
other  things  to  swear  at.  It's  a  waste  of^m- 
man  energy,  and  I  don't  understand  it.  We 
usedn't  to  indulge  in  soliloquies  in  South  Amer 
ica,  used  we  ?" 

"  No,  by  Jove !     And  look  here,  old  chap, 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"HAW BURY   SANK  BACK  IN  HIS   SEAT,  OVEEWllELMKl)." 


you'll  overlook  this  little  outburst,  won't  you  ? 
In  South  America  I  was  always  cool,  and  you 
did  the  hard  swearing,  my  boy.  I'll  be  cool 
again ;  and  what's  more,  I'll  get  back  to  South 
America  again  as  soon  as  I  can.  Once  on  the 
pampas,  and  I'll  be  a  man  again.  I  tell  you 
what  it  is,  I'll  start  to-morrow.  What  do  you 
say?  Come." 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Hawbury,  coolly ;  "  I  can't 
do  that.  I  have  business,  you  know." 

"Business?" 

"  Oh  yes,  you  know — Ethel,  you  know." 

"  By  Jove !  so  you  have.  That  alters  the 
matter." 

"  But  in  any  case  I  wouldn't  go,  nor  would 
you.  I  still  am  quite  unable  to  understand 
you.  Why  you  should  grow  desperate,  and 
swear  at  yourself,  and  then  propose  South 
America,  is  quite  beyond  me.  Above  all,  I 
don't  yet  see  any  reason  why  you  should  give 
up  your  child-angel.  You  were  all  raptures 
but  a  shorty  time  since.  Why  are  you  so  cold 
now  ?" 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Dacres. 

"  So  you  said  ever  so  long  ago." 

"It's  a  sore  subject,  and  difficult  to  speak 
about." 

"  Well,  old  man,  I'm  sorry  for  you ;  and 
don't  speak  about  it  at  all  if  it  gives  you  pain." 

"|Oh,  I'll  make  a  clean  breast  of  it.  You've 
told  your  affair,  and  I'll  tell  mine.  I  dare  say 
I'll  feel  all  the  better  for  it." 

"  Drive  on,  then,  old  man." 

Dacres  rose,  took  a  couple  of  glasses  of  beer  in 
quick  succession,  then  resumed  his  seat,  then 


picked  out  a  cigar  from  the  box  with  unusual  fas 
tidiousness,  then  drew  a  match,  then  lighted  the 
cigar,  then  sent  out  a  dozen  heavy  volumes  of 
smoke,  which  encircled  him  so  completely  that 
he  became  quite  concealed  from  Hawbury's 
view.  But  even  this  cloud  did  not  seem  suffi 
cient  to  correspond  with  the  gloom  of  his  soul. 
Other  clouds  rolled  forth,  and  still  others,  until 
all  their  congregated  folds  encircled  him,  and 
in  the  midst  there  was  a  dim  vision  of  a  big 
head,  whose  stin",  high,  curling,  crisp  hair,  and 
massive  brow,  and  dense  beard,  seemed  like 
some  living  manifestation  of  cloud-compelling 
Jove. 

For  some  time  there  was  silence,  and  Haw- 
bury  said  nothing,  but  waited  for  his  friend  to 
speak. 

At  last  a  voice  was  heard — deep,  solemn, 
awful,  portentous,  ominous,  sorrow -laden, 
weird,  mysterious,  prophetic,  obscure,  gloomy, 
doleful,  dismal,  and  apocalyptic. 

"  Hawbury  !" 

"Well,  old  man?" 

"HAWBURY  !" 

"All  right." 

"Are  you  listening?'' 

"  Certainly." 

"  Well — I'm — married!'' 

Hawbury  sprang  to  his  feet  as  though  he  had 
been  shot. 

"What!"  he  cried. 

"  I'm  married!" 

"You're  what?  Married?  You!  married  1 
Scone  Dacres !  not  you — not  married?" 

"/'/«  married!" 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


33 


"Good  Lord!" 

"/'HI  married!" 

Hawbury  sank  back  in  his  seat,  overwhelmed 
by  the  force  of  this  sudden  and  tremendous  rev 
elation.  For  some  time  there  was  a  deep  si 
lence.  Both  were  smoking.  The  clouds  roll 
ed  forth  from  the  lips  of  each,  and  curled  over 
their  heads,  and  twined  in  voluminous  folds, 
and  gathered  over  them  in  dark,  impenetrable 
masses.  Even  so  rested  the  clouds  of  doubt, 
of  darkness,  and  of  gloom  over  the  soul  of 
each,  and  those  which  were  visible  to  the  eye 
seemed  to  typify,  symbolize,  characterize,  and 
body  forth  the  darker  clouds  that  overshadow 
ed  the  mind. 

"/'HI  married!"  repeated  Dacres,  who  now 
seemed  to  have  become  like  Foe's  raven,  anil 
all  his  words  one  melancholy  burden  bore. 

"You  were  not  married  when  I  was  last  with 
you?"  said  Hawbury  at  last,  in  the  tone  of  one 
who  was  recovering  from  a  fainting  fit. 

"Yes,  I  was." 

"Not  in  South  America?" 

"  Yes,  in  South  America." 

"Married?" 

"Yes,  married." 

"By  Jove!" 

"Yes;  and  what's  more,  I've  been  married 
for  ten  years." 

"Ten  years !     Good  Lord !" 

"  It's  true." 

"  Why,  how  old  could  you  have  been  when 
you  got  married  ?" 

"  A  miserable,  ignorant,  inexperienced  dolt, 
idiot,  and  brat  of  a  boy." 

' '  By  Jove ! " 

"  Well,  the  secret's  out ;  and  now,  if  you 
care  to  hear,  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it." 

"I'm  dying  to  hear,  dear  boy;  so  go  on." 

And  at  this  Scone  Dacres  began  his  story. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A    MAD    WIFE. 

"I'LL  tell  you  all  about  it,"  said  Scone  Da 
cres  ;  "  but  don't  laugh,  for  matters  like  these 
are  not  to  be  trifled  with,  and  I  may  take  of 
fense." 

"  Oh,  bother,  as  if  I  ever  laugh  at  any  thing 
serious!  By  Jove!  no.  You  don't  know  me, 
old  chap." 

"All  right,  then.  Well,  to  begin.  This 
wife  that  I  speak  of  happened  to  me  very  sud 
denly.  I  was  only  a  boy,  just  out  of  Oxford, 
and  just  into  my  fortune.  I  was  on  my  way  to 
Paris — my  first  visit — and  was  full  of  no  end  of 
projects  for  enjoyment.  I  went  from  Dover, 
and  in  the  steamer  there  was  the  most  infer 
nally  pretty  girl.  Black,  mischievous  eyes,  with 
the  devil's  light  in  them ;  hair  curly,  crispy, 
frisky,  luxuriant,  all  tossing  over  her  head  and 
shoulders,  and  an  awfully  enticing  manner.  A 
portly  old  bloke  was  with  her — her  father,  I 
afterward  learned.  Somehow  my  hat  blew  off. 
She  laughed.  I  laughed.  Our  eyes  met.  I 
C 


made  a  merry  remark.  She  laughed  again  ; 
and  there  we  were,  introduced.  She  gave  me 
a  little  felt  hat  of  her  own.  I  fastened  it  on 
in  triumph  with  a  bit  of  string,  and  wore  it  all 
the  rest  of  the  way. 

"Well,  you  understand  it  all.  Of  course, 
by  the  time  we  got  to  Calais,  I  was  head  over 
heels  in  love,  and  so  was  she,  for  that  matter. 
The  old  man  was  a  jolly  old  John  Bull  of  a 
man.  I  don't  believe  he  had  the  slightest  ap 
proach  to  any  designs  on  me.  He  didn't  know 
any  thing  about  me,  so  how  could  he  ?  He 
was  jolly,  and  when  we  got  to  Calais  he  was 
convivial.  I  attached  myself  to  the  two,  and 
had  a  glorious  time.  Before  three  days  I  had 
exchanged  vows  of  eternal  fidelity  with  the 
lady,  and  all  that,  and  had  gained  her  consent 
to  marry  me  on  reaching  England.  As  to  the 
old  man  there  was  no  trouble  at  all.  He  made 
no  inquiries  about  my  means,  but  wrung  my 
hand  heartily,  and  said  God  bless  me.  Besides, 
there  were  no  friends  of  my  own  ta  consider. 
My  parents  were  dead,  and  I  had  no  relations 
nearer  than  cousins,  for  whom  I  didn't  care  a 
pin. 

"•My  wife  lived  at  Exeter,  and  belonged  to 
rather  common  people ;  but,  of  course,  I  didn't 
care  for  that.  Her  own  manners  and  style 
were  refined  enough.  She  had  been  sent  by 
her  father  to  a  very  fashionable  boarding-school, 
where-  she  had  been  run  through  the  same 
mould  as  that  in  which  her  superiors  had  been 
formed,  and  so  she  might  have  passed  muster 
any  where.  Her  father  was  awfully  fond  of 
her,  and  proud  of  her.  She  tyrannized  over 
him  completely.  I  soon  found  out  that  she  had 
been  utterly  spoiled  by  his  excessive  indulgence, 
and  that  she  was  the  most  whimsical,  nonsens 
ical,  headstrong,  little  spoiled  beauty  that  ever 
lived.  But,  of  course,  all  that,  instead  of  de 
terring  me,  only  increased  the  fascination  which 
she  exercised,  and  made  me  more  madly  in  love 
than  ever. 

"  Her  name  was  not  a  particularly  attractive 
one;  but  what  are  names!  It  was  Arethusa 
Wiggins.  Now  the  old  man  always  called  her 
"  Arry,"  which  sounded  like  the  vulgar  pronun 
ciation  of  "  Harry."  Of  course  I  couldn't  call 
her  that,  and  Arethusa  was  too  infernally  long, 
for  a  fellow  doesn't  want  to  be  all  day  in  pro 
nouncing  his  wife's  name.  Besides,  it  isn't  a 
bad  name  in  itself,  of  course ;  it's  poetic,  clas 
sic,  and  does  to  name  a  ship  of  war,  but  isn't 
quite  the  thing  for  one's  home  and  hearth. 

"  After  our  marriage  we  spent  the  honey 
moon  in  Switzerland,  and  then  came  home.  I 
had  a  very  nice  estate,  and  have  it  yet.  You've 
never  heard  of  Dacres  Grange,  perhaps — well, 
there's  where  we  began  life,  and  a  devil  of  a 
life  she  began  to  lead  me.  It  was  all  very  well 
at  first.  During  the  honey-moon  there  were 
only  a  few  outbursts,  and  after  we  came  to  the 
range  she  repressed  herself  for  about  a  fort 
night  ;  but  finally  she  broke  out  in  the  most  fu 
rious  fashion  ;  and  I  began  to  find  that  she  had 
a  devil  of  a  temper,  and  in  her  fits  she  was 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


but  a  small  remove  from  a  mad  woman.  You 
see  she  had  been  humored  and  indulged  and 
petted  and  coddled  by  her  old  fool  of  a  father, 
until  at  last  she  had  grown  to  be  the  most 
whimsical,  conceited,  tetchy,  suspicious,  impe 
rious,  domineering,  selfish,  cruel,  hard-hearted, 
and  malignant  young  vixen  that  ever  lived ; 
yet  this  evil  nature  dwelt  in  a  form  as  beautiful 
as  ever  lived.  She  was  a  beautiful  demon,  and 
I  soon  found  it  out. 

"  It  began  out  of  nothing  at  all.  I  had 
been  her  adoring  slave  for  three  weeks,  until  I 
began  to  be  conscious  of  the  most  abominable 
tyranny  on  her  part.  I  began  to  resist  this, 
and  we  were  on  the  verge  of  an  outbreak  when 
we  arrived  at  the  Grange.  The  sight  of,  the 
oW  hall  appeased  her  for  a  time,  but  finally  the 
novelty  wore  off,  and  her  evil  passions  burst 
out.  Naturally  enough,  my  first  blind  adora 
tion  passed  away,  and  I  began  to  take  my  proper 
position  toward  her ;  that  is  to  say,  I  undertook 
to  give  her  somtj  advice,  which  she  very  sorely 
needed.  This  was  the  signal  for  a  most  furious 
outbreak.  What  wa.s  worse,  her  outbreak  took 
place  before  the  servants.  Of  course  I  could 
.do  nothing  under  such  circumstances,  so  I  left 
the  room.  When  I  saw  her  again  she  was  sul 
len  and  vicious.  I  attempted  a  reconciliation, 
and  kneeling  down  I  passed  my  arms  caressing 
ly  around  her.  '  Look  here,'  said  I,  '  my  own 
poor  little  darling,  if  I've  done  wrong,  I'm  sorry, 
and — ' 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  my.lady  did  ?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"  She  kicked  nie  !  that's  all ;  she  kicked  me, 
just  as  I  was  apologizing  to  her — just, as  I  was 
trying  to  make  it  up.  She  kicked  me !  when 
I  had  done  nothing,  and  she  alone  had  been  to 
blame.  What's  more,  her  boots  were  rather 
heavy,  and  that  kick  made  itself  felt  unmis 
takably. 

"  I  at  once  arose,  and,  le.ft,  her  without  a 
word.  I  did  not  speak  to  her  then  for  some 
time.  I  used  to  pass  her  in  the  house  without 
looking  at  her.  This  galled  her  terribly.  She 
made  the  house  too  hot  for  the  servants,  and  I 
used  to  hear  her  all  day  long  scolding  them  in 
a  loud  shrill  voice,  till  the  sound  of  that  voice 
became  horrible  to  me. 

"  You  must  not  suppose,  however,  that  I  be 
came  alienated  all  at  once.  That  was  impossi 
ble.  I  loved  her  very  dearly.  After  she  had 
kicked  me  away  my  love  still  lasted.  It  was  a 
galling  thought  to  a  man  like  me  that  she,  a 
common  girl,  the  daughter  of  a.  small  trades 
man,  should  have  kicked  me ;  me,  the  descend 
ant  of  Crusaders,  by  Jove !  and  of  the  best  blood 
in  England ;  but  after  a  while  pride  ga;ve  way 
to  love,  and  I  tried  to  open  the  way  for  a  recon 
ciliation  once  or  twice.  ;  I  attempted  to  address 
her  in  her  calmer  moods,  blip  it  was  without  any 
success.  She  would  not  answer  me  at  all.  If 
servants  were  in  the  room  she  would  at  once 
proceed  to  give  orders  to  them,  just  as  though  I 
had  not  spoken.  She  showed  a  horrible  malig 
nancy  in  trying  to  dismiss  the  older  servants. 


whom  she  knew  to  be  favorites  of  mine.  Of 
course  I  would  not  let  her  do  it. 

"Well,  one  day  I  found  that  this  sort  of  life 
was  intolerable,  and  I  made  an  effort  to  put  an 
end  to  it  all.  ,  My  love  was  not  all  gone  yet,  and 
I  began  to  think  that  I  had  been  to  blame.  She 
had  always  been  indulged,  and  I  ought  to  have 
kept  up  the  system  a  little  longer,  and  let  her 
down  more  gradually.  I  thought  of  her  as  I 
first  saw  her  in  the  glory  of  her  youthful  beauty 
on  the  Calais  boat,  and  softened  my  heart  till  I 
began  to  long  for  a  reconciliation.  Really  I 
could  not  see  where  I  had  done  any  thing  out  of 
the  way.  I  was  awfully  fond  of  her  at  first,  and 
would  have  remained  so  if  she  had  let  me ;  but, 
you  perceive,  her  style  was  not  exactly  the  kind 
which  is  best  adapted  to  keep  a  man  at  a  wo 
man's  feet.  If  she  had  shown  the  slightest 
particle  of  tenderness,  I  would  have  gladly  for 
given  her  all — yes,  even  the  kick,  by  Jove  ! 

"  We  had  been  married  about  six  months  or 
so,  and  had  not  spoken  for  over  four  months ; 
so  on  the  day  I  refer  to  I  went  to  her  room.  She 
received  me  with  a  sulky  expression,  and  a  hard 
stare  full  of  insult. 

"  '  My  dear,'  said  I,  '  I  have  come  to  talk 
seriously  with  you.' 

"  '  Kate,'  said  she, '  show  this  gentleman  out.' 

"  It  was  her  maid  to  whom  she  spoke.  The 
maid  colored.  I  turned  to  her  and  pointed  to 
the  door,  and  she  went  out  herself.  My  wife 
stood  trembling  with  rage — a  beautiful  fury. 

"'I  have  determined,'  said  I,  quietly,  'to 
make  one  last  effort  for  reconciliation,  and  I 
want  to  be  heard.  Hear  me  now,  dear,  dear 
wife.  I  want  your  love  again ;  I  can  not  live 
this  way..  Can  nothing  be  done  ?  Must  I,  must 
you,  always  live  this  way  ?  Have  I  done  any 
wrong  ?  If  I  have,  I  repent.  But  come,  let  us 
forget  our  quarrel ;  let  us  remember  the  first 
days  of  our  acquaintance.  We  loved  one  an 
other,  darling.  And  bx»w  beautiful  you  were ! 
You  are  still  as  beautiful ;  won't  you  be  as  lov 
ing  ?  Don't  be  hard  on  a  fellow^  dear.  If  I've 
done  any  wrong,  tell  me,  and  I'll  make  it  right. 
See,  we  are  joined  together  for  life.  Can't  we 
make  life  sweeter  for  one  another  than  it  is  now  ? 
Come,  my  wife,  be  mine  again.' 

"I  went  on  in  this  strain  for  some  time,  and 
my  own  words  .actually  softened  me  more  as  I 
spoke.  I  felt  sorry,  too,  for  my  wife,  she  seem 
ed  so  wretched.  Besides,  it  was  a  last  chance, 
and  I  determined  to  humble  myself.  Any  thing 
was  better  than  perpetual  hate  and  misery.  So 
at  last  I  got  so  affected  b,y  my  own  eloquence 
that  I  became  quite  spooney.  Her  back  was 
turned  to  me;  I  could  not  s.ee  her  face.  I 
thought  by  her  silence  that  she  was|affected,  and, 
in  a  gush  of  tenderness,  I  put  rny  arm  around 
her. 

"In  an  instant  she  flung  it  off,  and  stepped 
back,  confronting  me  with  a  face  as  hard  and  an 
eye  as  malevolent  as  a  demon. 

"  She  reached  out  her  hand  toward  the  bell. 

"  '  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?'  I  asked. 

"  'Ring  for  my  maid,'  said  she. 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"'Don't,'  said  I, 
getting  between  her 
and  the  bell.  'Think; 
stop,  I  implore  you. 
This  is  our  last  chance 
for  a  reconciliation.' 

"  She  stepped  back 
with  a  cruel  smile. 
She  had  a  small  pen 
knife  in  her  hand. 
Her  eyes  glittered 
venomously. 

"'Reconciliation,' 
she  said,  with  a  sneer. 
'  /  don't  want  it ;  / 
don't  want  you.  You 
came  and  forced  your 
self  here.  Ring  for 
my  maid,  and  I  will 
let  her  show  you  the 
door.' 

.    '"  You  can't  mean 
it  ?'  I  said. 

"  'I  do  mean  it,' 
she  replied.  '  Ring 
the  bell,'  she  added, 
imperiously. 

"I  stood  looking 
at  her. 

"'Leave  the  room, 
then,'  she  said. 
,    "  '  I  must  have  a 
satisfactory   answer,' 
said  I. 

"'Very  well,'  said 
she.      '  Here  it  is.' 
.    "And  saying  this 
she  took  the  penknife 
by  the  blade,  between 

her  thumb  and  finger,  ' 

and  slung  it  at  me. 

It  struck  me  on  the  arm,  and  buried  itself  deep 
in  the  flesh  till  it  touched  the  bone.  I  drew  it 
out,  and  without  another  word  left  the  room. 
As  I  went  out  I  heard  her  summoning  the  maid 
in  a  loud,  stern  voice. 

"Well,  after  that  I  went  to  the  Continent, 
and  spent  about  six  months.  Then  I  returned. 

"  On  my  return  I  found  every  thing  changed. 
She  had  sent  off  all  the  servants,  and  brought 
there  a  lot  of  ruffians  whom  she  was  unable  to 
manage,  and  who  threw  every  thing  into  confu 
sion.  All  the  gentry  talked  of  her,  and  avoided 
the  place.  My  friends  greeted  me  with  strange, 
pitying  looks.  She  had  cut  down  most  of  the 
woods,  and  sold  the  timber ;  she  had  sent  off 
a  number  of  valuable  pictures  and  sold  them. 
This  was  to  get  money,  for  I  afterward  found 
out  that  avarice  was  one  of  her  strongest 
vices. 

"The  sight  of  all  this  filled  me  with  indig 
nation,  and  I  at  once  turned  out  the  whole  lot 
of  servants,  leaving  only  two  or  three  maids,  I 
obtained  some  of  the  old  servants,  and  rein 
stated  them.  All  this  made  my  wife  quite  wild. 
She  came  up  to  me  once  and  began  to  storm, 


VEKY   WELL.      IIEUE   IT  IS. 


but  I  said  something  to  her  which  shut  her  up 
at  once. 

"  One  ,d.ay  I  came  home  and  found  her  on 
the  portico,  in  her  riding-habit.  She  was  whip 
ping  :one  of  the  maids  with  the  butt  end  of  her 
riding-whip.  I  rushed  up  and  released  the  poor 
creature,  whose  cries  were  really  heart-rending, 
when  my  wife  turned  on  me,  like  a  fury,  and 
struck  two  blows  over  my  head.  One  of  the 
scars  is  on  my  forehead  still.  See." 

And  Dacres  put  aside  his  hair  on  the  top  of 
his  head,,  just  over  his  right  eye,  and  showed  a 
long  red  mark,  which  seemed  like  the  scar  of  a 
dangerous  wound. 

"It  was  an  ugly  blow,"  he  continued.  "I 
at  once  tore  the  whip  from  her,  and,  grasping 
her  hand,  led  her  into  the  drawing-room.  There 
I  confronted  her,  holding  her  tight.  I  dare  say 
I  was  rather  a  queer  sight,  for  the  blood  was 
rushing  down  over  my  face,  and  dripping  from 
my  beard. 

"  'Look  here,  now,'  I  said;  'do  you  know 
any  reason  why  I  shouldn't  lay  this  whip  over 
your  shoulders  ?  The  English  law  allows  it. 
Don't  you  feel  that  you  deserve  it  ?' 


36 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"  She  shrank  down,  pale  and  trembling.  She 
was  a  coward,  evidently,  and  accessible  to  phys 
ical  terror. 

"'If  I  belonged  to  your  class,'  said  I,  'I 
would  do  it.  But  I  am  of  a  different  order.  I 
am  a  gentleman.  Go.  After  all,  I'm  not  sorry 
that  yon  gave  me  this  blow.' 

"  I  stalked  out  of  the  room,  had  a  doctor,  who 
bound  up  the  wound,  and  then  meditated  over 
my  situation.  I  made  up  my  mind  at  once  to 
a  separation.  Thus  far  she  had  done  nothing 
to  warrant  a  divorce,  and  separation  was  the 
only  thing.  I  was  laid  up  and  feverish  for 
about  a  month,  but  at  the  end  of  that  time  I 
had  an  interview  with  my  wife.  I  proposed  a 
separation,  and  suggested  that  she  should  go 
home  to  her  father.  This  she  refused.  She 
declared  herself  quite  willing  to  have  a  separa 
tion,  but  insisted  on  living  at  Dacres  Grange. 

"  '  And  what  am  I  to  do  ?'  I  asked. 

"  '  Whatever  you  please,'  she  replied,  calmly. 

"  'Do  you  really  propose,'  said  I,  'to  drive 
me  out  of  the  home  of  my  ancestors,  and  live 
here  yourself?  Do  you  think  I  will  allow  this 
place  to  be  under  your  control  after  the  fright 
ful  havoc  that  you  have  made  ?' 

"  '  I  shall  remain  here,'  said  she,  firmly. 

"I  said  nothing  more.  I  saw  that  she  was 
immovable.  At  the  same  time  I  could  not 
consent.  I  could  not  live  with  her,  and  I  could 
not  go  away  leaving  her  there.  I  could  not 
give  up  the  ancestral  home  to  her,  to  mar  and 
mangle  and  destroy.  Well,  I  waited  for  about 
two  months,  and  then — " 

"Well?"  asked  Hawbury,  as  Dacres  hesitated. 

"  Dacres  Grange  was  burned  down,"  said 
the  other,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Burned  down!" 

"  Yes." 

"Good  Lord!" 

"It  caught  fire  in  the  daytime.  There  were 
but  few  servants.  No  fire-engines  were  near, 
for  the  Grange  was  in  a  remote  place,  and  so 
the  fire  soon  gained  headway  and  swept  over 
all.  My  wife  was  frantic.  She  came  to  me  as 
I  stood  looking  at  the  spectacle,  and  charged 
me  with  setting  fire  to  it.  I  smiled  at  her,  but 
made  no  reply. 

"  So  you  see  she  was  burned  out,  and  that 
question  was  settled.  It  was  a  terrible  thing, 
but  desperate  diseases  require  desperate  reme 
dies  ;  and  I  felt  it  more  tolerable  to  have  the 
house  in  ruins  than  to  have  her  living  there 
while  I  had  to  be  a  wanderer. 

"  She  was  now  at  my  mercy.  We  went  to 
Exeter.  She  went  to  her  father,  and  I  finally- 
succeeded  in  effecting  an  arrangement  which 
was  satisfactory  on  all  sides. 

"  First  of  all,  the  separation  should  be  abso 
lute,  and  neither  of  us  should  ever  hold  com 
munication  with  the  other  in  any  shape  or  way. 

"Secondly,  she  should  take  another  name, 
so  as  to  conceal  the  fact  that  she  was  my  wife, 
and  not  do  any  further  dishonor  to  the  name. 

"In  return  for  this  I  was  to  give  her  out 
right  twenty  thousand  pounds  as  her  own  ab- 


'  solutely,  to  invest  or  spend  just  as  she  chose. 
She  insisted  on  this,  so  that  she  need  not  be  de 
pendent  on  any  annual  allowance.  In  consid 
eration  of  this  she  forfeited  every  other  claim, 
all  dower  right  in  the  event  of  my  death,  and 
every  thing  else.  This  was  all  drawn  up  in  a 
formal  document,  and  worded  as  carefully  as 
possible.  I  don't  believe  that  the  document 
would  be  of  much  use  in  a  court  of  law  in  case 
she  wished  to  claim  any  of  her  rights,  but  it 
served  to  satisfy  her,  and  she  thought  it  was 
legally  sound  and  actually  inviolable. 

"  Here  we  separated.  I  left  England,  and 
have  never  been  there  since." 

Dacres  stopped,  and  sat  silent  for  a  long  time. 

"  Could  she  have  been  mad  ?"  asked  Hawbury. 

"I  used  to  think  so,  but  I  believe  not.  She 
showed  too  much  sense  in  every  thing  relating 
to  herself.  She  sold  pictures  and  timber,  and 
kept  every  penny.  She  was  acute  enough  in 
grasping  all  she  could.  During  our  last  inter 
views  while  making  these  arrangements  she 
was  perfectly  cool  and  lady-like. 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  about  her  since?" 

"  Never." 

"  Is  she  alive  yet  ?" 

"That's  the  bother." 

"  What !  don't  you  know  ?" 

"No." 

"  Haven't  you  ever  tried  to  find  out  ?" 

"  Yes.  Two  years  ago  I  went  and  had  in 
quiries  made  at  Exeter.  Nothing  could  be 
found  out.  She  and  her  father  had  left  the 
place  immediately  after  my  departure,  and 
nothing  was  known  about  them." 

"I  wonder  that  you  didn't  go  yourself?" 

"What  for?  I  didn't  care  about  seeing  her 
or  finding  her." 

"  Do  you  think  she's  alive  yet  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  she  is.  You  see  she  always  had 
excellent  health,  and  there's  no  reason  why  she 
should  not  live  to  be  an  octogenarian." 

"Yet  she  may  be  dead." 

"  May  be !  And  what  sort  of  comfort  is  that 
to  me  in  my  present  position,  I  should  like  to 
know  ?  May  be  ?  Is  that  a  sufficient  foun 
dation  for  me  to  build  on  ?  No.  In  a  moment 
of  thoughtlessness  I  have  allowed  myself  to  for 
get  the  horrible  position  in  which  I  am.  But 
now  I  recall  it.  I'll  crush  down  my  feelings, 
and  be  a  man  again.  I'll  see  the  child-angel 
once  more ;  once  more  feast  my  soul  over  her 
sweet  and  exquisite  loveliness ;  once  more  get 
a  glance  from  her  tender,  innocent,  and  guile 
less  eyes,  and  then  away  to  South  America." 

"  You  said  your  wife  took  another  name." 

"Yes." 

"  What  was  it  ?     Do  you  know  it  ?" 

"Oh  yes  ;  it  was  WHloughby." 

"  Willouyhby  /"  cried  Hawbury,  with  a  start ; 
"  why,  that's  the  name  of  my  Ethel's  friend, 
at  Montreal.  Could  it  have  been  the  same  ?" 

"Pooh,  man!  How  is  that  possible  ?  Wil- 
!  loughby  is  not  an  uncommon  name.  It's  not 
j  more  likely  that  your  Willoughby  and  mine  are 
i  the  same  than  it  is  that  your  Ethel  is  the  one  I 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


37 


met  at  Vesuvius.  It's  only  a  coincidence,  and 
not  a  very  wonderful  one,  either." 

"It  seems  con-foundedly  odd,  too,"  said 
Hawbury,  thoughtfully.  "Willoughby?  Ethel? 
Good  Lord!  But  pooh  !  What  rot?  As  though 
they  could  he  the  same.  Preposterous!  By 
Jove !" 

And  Hawbury  stroked  away  the  preposterous 
idea  through  his  long,  pendent  whiskers. 


"SHE  OAUGHT  MINNIE  IN   HER  AEMS." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

NEW    EMBARRASSMENTS. 

MRS.  WILLOUGHBT  had  been  spending  a 
few  days  with  a  friend  whom  she  had  found  in 
Naples,  and  on  her  return  was  greatly  shock 
ed  to  hear  of  Minnie's  adventure  on  Vesu 
vius.  Lady  Dalrymple  and  Ethel  had  a  story 
to  tell  which  needed  no  exaggerations  and  am 
plifications  to  agitate  her  strongly.  Minnie 
was  not  present  during  the  recital ;  so,  after 
hearing  it,  Mrs.  Willoughby  went  to  her  room. 

Here  she  caught  Minnie  in  her  arms,  and 
kissed  her  in  a  very  effusive  manner. 

"  Oh,  Minnie,  my  poor  darling,  what  is  all 
this  about  Vesuvius?  Is  it  true?  It  is  ter 
rible.  And  now  I  will  never  dare  to  leave  you 
again.  How  could  I  think  that  you  would 
be  in  any  danger  with  Lady  Dalrymple  and 
Ethel  ?  As  to  Ethel,  I  am  astonished.  She  is 
always  so  grave  and  so  sad  that  she  is  the  very 
last  person  I  would  have  supposed  capable  of 
leading  you  into  danger." 

"Now,  Kitty  dearest,  that's  not  true,"  said 
Minnie;  "she  didn't  lead  me  at  all.  I  led 
her.  And  how  did  I  know  there  was  any  dan 
ger?  I  remember  now  that  dear,  darling  Ethel 
said  there  was,  and  I  didn't  believe  her.  But 
it's  always  the  way."  And  Minnie  threw  her 
little  bead  on  one  side,  and  gave  a  resigned  sigh. 

"And  did  you  really  get  into  the  crater?" 
asked  Mrs.  Willoughby,  with  a  shudder. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so.  They  all  said  so,"  said 
Minnie,  folding  her  little  hands  in  front  of  her. 


"  I  only  remember  some  smoke,  and  then  jolting 
about  dreadfully  on  the  shoulder  of  some  great 
— big — awful — man." 

"  Oh  dear!"  sighed  Mrs.  Willoughby. 

"What's  the  matter,  Kitty  dearest?" 

"Another  man  !"  groaned  her  sister. 

"Well,  and  how  could  I  help  it?"  said  Min 
nie.  "I'm  sure  I  didn't  want  him.  I'm  sure 
I  think  he  might  have  let  me  alone.  I  don't 
see  why  they  all  act  so.  I  wish  they  wouldn't 
be  all  the  time  coming  and  saving  my  life.  If 
people  will  go  and  save  my  life,  I  can't  help  it. 
I  think  it's  very,  very  horrid  of  them." 

"  Oh  dear!  oh  dear!"  sighed  her  sister  again. 

"Now,  Kitty,  stop." 

"Another  man  !"  sighed  Mrs.  Willoughby. 

"Now,  Kitty,  if  you  are  so  unkind,  I'll  cry. 
You're  always  teasing  me.  You  never  do  any 
thing  to  comfort  me.  You  know  I  want  com 
fort,  and  I'm  not  strong,  and  people  all  come 
and  save  my  life  and  worry  me ;  and  I  really 
sometimes  think  I'd  rather  not  live  at  all  if  my 
life  has  to  be  saved  so  often.  I'm  sure  /  don't 
know  why  they  go  and  do  it.  I'm  sure  /  never 
heard  of  any  person  who  is  always  going  and 
getting  her  life  saved,  and  bothered,  and  pro 
posed  to,  and  written  to,  and  chased,  and  fright 
ened  to  death.  And  I've  a  great  mind  to  go 
and  get  married,  just  to  stop  it  all.  And  I'd 
just  as  soon  marry  this  last  man  as  not,  and 
make  him  drive  all  the  others  away  from  me. 
He's  big  enough." 

Minnie  ended  all  this  with  a  little  sob ;  and 
her  sister,  as  usual,  did  her  best  to  soothe  and 
quiet  her. 

"  Well,  but,  darling,  how  did  it  all  happen  ?" 

"Oh,  don't,  don't." 

"  But  you  might  tell  me." 

"Oh,  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it.  It's  too 
horrible." 

"Poor  darling — the  crater?" 

"No,  the  great,  big  man.  I  didn't  see  any 
crater." 

"  Weren't  you  in  the  crater  ?" 

"No,  I  wasn't." 

"They  said  you  were." 

"I  wasn't.  I  was  on  the  back  of  a  big, 
horrid  man,  who  gave  great  jumps  down  the 
side  of  an  awful  mountain,  all  sand  and  things, 
and  threw  me  down  at  the  bottom  of  it,  and — 
and — disarranged  all  my  hair.  And  I  was  so 
frightened  that  I  couldn't  even  cur — cur — cry." 

Here  Minnie  sobbed  afresh,  and  Mrs.  Wil 
loughby  petted  her  again. 

"And  you  shouldn't  tease  me  so;  and  it's 
very  unkind  in  you  ;  and  you  know  I'm  not 
i  well ;  and  I  can't  bear  to  think  about  it  all ;  and 
!  I  know  you're  going  to  scold  me ;  and  you're 
always  scolding  me ;  and  you  never  do  what  I 
'  want  you  to.  And  then  people  are  a/u-ays  com- 
.  ing  and  saving  my  life,  and  I  can't  bear  it  any 
;  more." 

" No-o-o-o-o-o,  n-n-no-o-o-o,  darling!"  said 
Mrs.  Willoughby,  soothingly,  in  the  tone  of  a 
nurse  appeasing  a  fretful  child.  "  You  sha'n't 
bear  it  anv  more." 


38 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"I  don't  want  them  to  save  me  any  more." 
"Well,  they  sha'n't  do  it,  then,"  said  Mrs. 
Willoughby,  affectionately,  in  a  somewhat  maud 
lin  tone. 

"And  the  next  time  I  lose  my  life,  I  don't 
want  to  be  saved.  I  want  them  to  let  me  alone, 
and  I'll  come  home  myself." 

"  And  so  you  shall,  darling ;  you  shall  do 
just  as  you  please.  So,  now,  cheer  up ;  don't 
cry;"  and  Mrs.  Willoughby  tried  to  wipe  Min 
nie's  eyes. 

"But  you're  treating  me  just  like  a  baby, 
and  I  don't  want  to  be  talked  to  so,"  said  Min 
nie,  fretfully. 

Mrs.  Willoughby  retreated  with  a  look  of 
despair. 

"Well,  then,  dear,  I'll  do  just  whatever  you 
want  me  to  do." 

"  Well,  then,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  I 
am  to  do." 

"About  what?" 

"Why,  about  this  great,  big,  horrid  man." 
"  I  thought  you  didn't  want  me  to  talk  about 
this  any  more." 

"  But  I  do  want  you  to  talk  about  it.  You're 
the  only  person  that  I've  got  to  talk  to  about  it ; 
nobody  else  knows  how  peculiarly  I'm  situated  ; 
and  I  didn't  think  that  you'd  give  me  up  because 
I  had  fresh  troubles." 

"Give  you  up,  darling!"  echoed  her  sister, 
in  surprise. 

"You  said  you  wouldn't  talk  about  it  any 
more." 

"  But  I  thought  you  didn't  want  me  to  talk 
about  it." 

"But  I  do  want  you  to." 
"  Very  well,  then ;  and  now  I  want  you  first 
of  all,  darling,  to  tell  me  how  you  happened  to 
get  into  such  danger." 

"Well,  you  know,"  began  Minnie,  who  now 
seemed  calmer — "you  know  we  all  went  out 
for  a  drive.  And  we  drove  along  for  miles. 
Such  a  drive !  There  were  lazaroni,  and  donk 
eys,  and  caleches  with  as  many  as  twenty  in 
each,  all  pulled  by  one  poor  horse,  and  it's  a 
great  shame ;  and  pigs — oh,  such  pigs  !  Not 
a  particle  of  hair  on  them,  you  know,  and  look 
ing  like  young  elephants,  you  know ;  and  we 
saw  great  droves  of  oxen,  and  long  lines  of 
booths,  no  end ;  and  people  selling  macaroni, 
and  other  people  eating  it  right  in  the  open 
street,  you  know — such  fun! — and  fishermen 
and  fish -wives.  Oh,  how  they  were  screaming, 
and  oh,  such  a  hubbub  as  there  was !  and  we 
couldn't  go  on  fast,  and  Dowdy  seemed  really 
frightened." 

"  Dowdy  ?"  repeated  Mrs.  Willoughby,  in  an 
interrogative  tone. 

"Oh,  that's  a  name  I've  just  invented  for 
Lady  Dalrymple.  It's  better  than  Rymple. 
She  said  so.  It's  Dowager  shortened.  She's 
a  dowager,  you  know.  And  so,  you  know,  I 
was  on  the  front  seat  all  the  time,  when  all  at 
once  I  saw  a  gentleman  on  horseback.  He 
was  a  great  big  man — oh,  so  handsome ! — and 
he  was  looking  at  poor  little  me  as  though  he 


would  eat  me  up.  And  the  moment  I  saw  him 
I  was  frightened  out  of  my  poor  little  wits,  for 
I  knew  he  was  coming  to  save  my  life." 

"You  poor  little  puss!  what  put  such  an 
dea  as  that  into  your  ridiculous  little  head  ?" 

"Oh,  I  knew  it — second-sight,  you  know. 
We've  got  Scotch  blood,  Kitty  darling,  you 
know.  So,  you  know,  I  sat,  and  I  saw  that  be 
was  pretending  not  to  see  me,  and  not  to  be 
following  us ;  but  all  the  time  he  was  taking 
good  care  to  keep  behind  us,  when  he  could 
easily  have  passed  us,  and  all  to  get  a  good 
look  at  poor  me,  you  know. 

"Well,"  continued  Minnie,  drawing  a  long 
breath,  "you  know  I  was  awfully  frightened; 
and  so  I  sat  looking  at  him,  and  I  whispered 
all  the  time  to  myself:  'Oh,  please  don't!  — 
ple-e-e-e-e-ease  don't !  Don't  come  and  save 
my  life !  Ple-e-e-e-e-ease  let  me  alone  !  I 
don't  want  to  be  saved  at  all.'  I  said  this,  you 
know,  all  to  myself,  and  the  more  I  said  it  the 
more  he  seemed  to  fix  his  eyes  on  me." 

"It  was  very,  very  rude  in  him,  /think," 
said  Mrs.  Willoughby,  with  some  indignation. 

"  No,  it  wasn't,"  said  Minnie,  sharply.  "  He 
wasn't  rude  at  all.  He  tried  not  to  look  at  me. 
He  pretended  to  be  looking  at  the  sea,  and  at 
the  pigs,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know  ; 
but  all  the  time,  you  know,  I  knew  very  well 
that  he  saw  me  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye — 
this  way." 

And  Minnie  half  turned  her  head,  and  threw 
upon  her  sister,  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eyes,  a 
glance  so  languishing  that  the  other  laughed. 

"  He  didn't  look  at  you  that  way.  I  hope  ?" 

"  There  was  nothing  to  laugh  at  in  it  at  all," 
said  Minnie.  "  He  had  an  awfully  solemn  look 
— it  was  so  earnest,  so  sad,  and  so  dreadful, 
that  I  really  began  to  feel  quite  frightened. 
And  so  would  you;  wouldn't  yon,  now,  Kitty 
darling;  now  wouldn't  you?  Please  say  so." 

"Oh  yes!" 

"  Of  course  you  would.  Well,  this  person 
followed  us.  I  could  see  him  very  easily, 
though  he  tried  to  avoid  notice ;  and  so  at  last 
we  got  to  the  Hermitage,  and  he  came  too. 
Well,  you  know,  I  think  I  was  very  much  ex 
cited,  and  I  asked  Dowdy  to  let  us  go  and  see 
the  cone  ;  so  she  let  us  go.  She  gave  no  end 
of  warnings,  and  we  promised  to  do  all  that 
she  said.  So  Ethel  and  I  went  out,  and  there 
was  the  stranger.  Well,  I  felt  more  excited 
than  ever,  and  a  little  bit  frightened — just  a 
very,  very,  tiny,  little  bit,  you  know,  and  I 
teased  Ethel  to  go  to  the  cone.  Well,  the 
stranger  kept  in  sight  all  the  time,  you  know, 
and  I  felt  his  eyes  on  me — I  really  felt  them. 
So,  you  know,  when  we  got  at  the  foot  of  the 
cone,  I  was  so  excited  that  I  was  really  quite 
beside  myself,  and  I  teased  and  teased,  till  at 
last  Ethel  consented  to  go  up.  So  the  men 
took  us  up  on  chairs,  and  all  the  time  the  stran 
ger  was  in  sight.  He  walked  up  by  himself 
with  great,  big,  long,  strong  strides.  So  we 
went  on  till  we  got  at  the  top,  and  then  I  was 
1  wilder  than  ever.  I  didn't  know  that  there 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


39 


was  a  particle  of  danger.  I  was  dying  with 
curiosity  to  look  down,  and  see  where  the 
smoke  came  from.  The  stranger  was  standing 
there  too,  and  that's  what  made  me  so  excited. 
I  wanted  to  show  him — I  don't  know  what.  I 
think  my  idea  was  to  show  him  that  I  could 
take  care  of  myself.  So  then  I  teased  and 
teased,  and  Ethel  begged  and  prayed,  and  she 
cried,  and  I  laughed ;  and  there  stood  the 
stranger,  seeing  it  all,  until  at  last  I  started 
oft',  and  ran  up  to  the  top,  you  know." 

Mrs.  Willoughby  shuddered,  and  took  her 
sister's  hand. 

"There  was  no  end  of  smoke,  you  know, 
and  it  was  awfully  unpleasant,  and  I  got  to  the 
top  I  don't  know  how,  when  suddenly  I  fainted." 

Minnie  paused  for  a  moment,  and  looked  at 
her  sister  with  a  rueful  face. 

"Well,  now,  dear,  darling,  the  very — next — 
thing — that  I  remember  is  this,  and  it's  hor 
rid  :  I  felt  awful  jolts,  and  found  myself  in  the 
arms  of  a  great,  big,  horrid  man,  who  was  run 
ning  down  the  side  of  the  mountain  with  dread 
fully  long  jumps,  and  I  felt  as  though  he  was 
some  horrid  ogre  carrying  poor  me  away  to  his 
den  to  eat  me  up.  But  I  didn't  say  one  word. 
I  wasn't  much  frightened.  I  felt  provoked.  I 
knew  it  was  that  horrid  man.  And  then  I 
wondered  what  you'd  say ;  and  I  thought,  oh, 
how  you  would  scold !  And  then  I  knew  that 
this  horrid  man  would  chase  me  away  from 
Italy ;  and  then  I  would  have  to  go  to  Turkey, 
and  have  my  life  saved  by  a  Mohammedan. 
And  that  was  horrid. 

"Well,  at  last  he  stopped  and  laid  me  down. 
He  was  very  gentle,  though  he  was  so  big.  I 
kept  my  eyes  shut,  and  lay  as  still  as  a  mouse, 
hoping  that  Ethel  would  come.  But  Ethel 
didn't.  She  was  coming  down  with  the  chair, 
you  know,  and  her  men  couldn't  run  like  mine. 
And  oh,  Kitty  darling,  you  have  no  idea  what 
I  suffered.  This  horrid  man  was  rubbing  and 
pounding  at  my  hands,  and  sighing  and  groan 
ing.  I  stole  a  little  bit  of  a  look  at  him — just 
a  little  bit  of  a  bit — and  saw  tears  in  his  eyes, 
and  a  wild  look  of  fear  in  his  face.  Then  I 
knew  that  he  was  going  to  propose  to  me  on 
the  spot,  and  kept  my  eyes  shut  tighter  than 
ever. 

"Well,  at  last  he  hurt  my  hands  so  that  I 
thought  I'd  try  to  make  him  stop.     So  I  spoke 
as  low  as  I  could,  and  asked  if  I  was  home,  and 
he  said  yes." 
.  Minnie  paused. 

"  Well  ?"  asked  her  sister. 

"Well,"  said  Minnie,  in  a  doleful  tone,  "I 
then  asked,  'Is  that  you,  papa  dear?'" 

Minnie  stopped  again. 

"  Well  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Willoughbv  once  more. 

"Well—" 

"Well, 'go  on." 

"  Well,  he   said — he  said,     Yes,  darling' — 
and — " 
.  "  And  what  ?" 

"  And  he  kissed  me,"  said  Minnie,  in  a  dole 
ful  voice. 


"Kissed  you!"  exclaimed  her  sister,  with 
flashing  eyes. 

"Ye-yes,"  stammered  Minnie,  with  a  sob; 
"  and  I  think  it's  a  shame  ;  and  none  of  them 
ever  did  so  before  ;  and  I  don't  want  you  ever 
to  go  away  again,  Kitty  darling." 

"The  miserable  wretch!"  cried  Mrs.  Wil 
loughby,  indignantly. 

"No,  he  isn't — he  isn't  that,"  said  Minnie. 
"  He  isn't  a  miserable  wretch  at  all." 

"How  could  any  one  he  so  hase  who  pre 
tends  to  the  name  of  gentleman!"  cried  Mrs. 
Willoughby.  . 

"  He  wasn't  base — and  it's  very  wicked  of 
you,  Kitty.  He  only  pretended,  you  know." 

"Pretended!" 

"Yes." 

"  Pretended  what  ?" 

"Why,  that  he  was  my — my  father,  you 
know." 

"Does  Ethel  know  this?"  asked  Mrs.  Wil 
loughby,  after  a  curious  look  at  Minnie. 

"  No,  of  course  not,  nor  Dowdy  either ;  and 
you  mustn't  go  and  make  any  disturbance." 

"Disturbance?  no;  but  if  I  ever  see  him, 
I'll  let  him  know  what  I  think  of  him,"  said 
Mrs.  Willoughby,  severely. 

"  But  he  saved  my  life,  and  so  you  know  you 
can't  be  very  harsh  with  him.  Please  don't — 
ple-e-e-ease  now,  Kitty  darling." 

"Oh,  you  little  goose,  what  whimsical  idea 
have  you  got  now  ?" 

"Please  don't,  ple-e-e-ease  don't,"  repeated 
Minnie. 

"  Oh,  never  mind  ;  go  on  now,  darling,  and 
tell  me  about  the  rest  of  it." 

"  Well,  there  isn't  any  more.  I  lay  still,  you 
know,  and  at  last  Ethel  came ;  and  then  we 
went  back  to  Dowdy,  and  then  we  came  home, 
you  know." 

"  Well,  I  hope  you've  lost  him." 

"Lost  him?  Oh  no;  I  never  do.  They  al 
ways  z<n7/come.  Besides,  this  one  will,  I  know." 

"Why?" 

"Because  he  said  so." 

"Said  so?  when?" 

"Yesterday." 

"Yesterday?" 

"Yes;  we  met  him." 

"Who?" 

"Dowdy  and  I.  We  were  out  driving.  We 
stopped  and  spoke  to  him.  He  was  dreadfully 
earnest  and  awfully  embarrassed ;  and  I  knew 
he  was  going  to  propose ;  so  I  kept  whispering  to 
myself  all  the  time,  'Oh,  please  don't — please 
don't;'  hut  I  know  he  will;  and  he'll  be  here 
soon  too." 

"He  sha'n't.  I  won't  let  him.  I'll  never 
give  him  the  chance." 

"I  think  you  needn't  be  so  cruel." 

"Cruel!" 

"Yes  ;  to  the  poor  man." 

"  Why,  you  don't  want  another  man,  I  hope?" 

"N-no;  but  then  I  don't  want  to  hurt  his 
feelings.  It  was  awfully  good  of  him,  you 
know,  and  awfully  plucky." 


40 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


''IF   I   EVEK    SEE   HIM,    l'j.1.   LET   HIM   KNOW   WHAT  I   THINK   OF   HIM.' 


"  Well,  I  should  think  that  yon  would  pre 
fer  avoiding  him,  in  your  peculiar  situation." 

"Yes,  but  he  may  feel  hurt.'? 

"  Oh,  he  may  see  you  once  or  twice  with 
me." 

"But  he  may  want  to  see  me  alone,  and 
what  can  I  do  ?" 

"Really  now,  Minnie,  you  must  rememher 
that  you  are  in  a  serious  position.  There  is 
that  wretched  Captain  Kirby." 

"  I  know,"  said  Minnie,  with  a  sigh. 

"And  that  dreadful  American.  By-the-way, 
darling,  you  have  never  told  me  his  name.  It 
isn't  of  any  consequence,  but  I  should  like  to 
know  the  American's  name." 

"It's— Rufus  K.  Gunn." 

"  Rufus  K.  Gunn  ;  what  a  funny  name !  and 
what  in  the  world  is  '  K'  for?" 

"Oh,  nothing.  He  says  it  is  the  fashion  in 
his  country  to  have  some  letter  of  the  alphabet 
between  one's  names,  and  he  chose  'K,'  be 
cause  it  was  so  awfully  uncommon.  Isn't  it 
funny,  Kitty  darling?" 

"Oh  dear!"  sighed  her  sister;  "and  then 
there  is  that  pertinacious  Count  Girasole.  Think 
what  trouble  we  had  in  getting  quietly  rid  of 
him.  I'm  afraid  all  the  time  that  he  will  not 
stay  at  Florence,  as  he  said,  for  he  seems  to 
have  no  fixed  abode.  First  he  was  going  to 
Rome,  and  then  Venice,  and  at  last  he  com 
mitted  himself  to  a  statement  that  he  had  to 
remain  at  Florence,  and  so  enabled  us  to  get- 
rid  of  him.  But  I  know  he'll  come  upon  us 
again  somewhere,  and  then  we'll  have  all  the 
trouble  over  again.  Oh  dear!  Well,  Minnie 


darling,  do  you  know  the  name  of  this  last 
one?" 

"Oh  yes." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  It's  a  funny  name,"  said  Minnie  ;  "  a  very 
funny  name." 

"  Tell  it  to  me." 

"It's  Scone  Dacres;  and  isn't  that  a  funny 
name?" 

Mrs.  Willoughby  started  at  the  mention  of 
that  name.  Then  she  turned  away  her  head, 
and  did  not  say  a  word  for  a  long  time. 

"Kitty!" 

No  answer. 

"Kitty  darling,  what's  the  matter?" 

Mrs.  Willoughby  turned  her  head  once  more. 
Her  face  was  quite  calm,  and  her  voice  had  its 
usual  tone,  as  she  asked, 

"Say  that  name  again." 

"  Scone  Dacres,"  said  Minnie. 

"Scone  Dacres!"  repeated  Mrs.  Willough 
by;  "  and  what  sort  of  a  man  is  he?" 

"Big — very  big — awfully  big!"  said  Min 
nie.  "Great,  big  head  and  broad  shoulders. 
Great,  big  arms,,  that  carried  me  as  if  I  were  a 
feather;  big  beard  too;  and  it  tickled  me  so 
when  he — he  pretended  that  he  was  my  father  ; 
and  very  sad.  And,  oh  !  I  know  I  should  be  so 
rwfiilly  fond  of  him.  And,  oh  !  Kitty  darling, 
what  do  you  think  ?" 

"What,  dearest?" 

"Why,  I'm — I'm  afraid — I'm  really  begin 
ning  to — to — like  him — just  a  little  tiny  bit, 
you  know." 

"iScoue  Dacrewl"  repeated  Mrs.  Willough- 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


41 


by,  who  didn't  seem  to  have  heard  this  last  ef 
fusion.  "  Scone  Dacres  !  Well,  darling,  don't 
trouble  yourself;  he  sha'n't  trouble  you." 

"But  I  want  him  to,"  said  Minnie. 

"Oh,  nonsense,  child!" 


"  1IALLO,  OLD  MAN,  WHAT'S   UP  NOW  ?" 


CHAPTER  X. 

A   FEARFUL    DISCOVERT. 

A  FEW  clays  after  this  Hawbury  was  in  his 
room,  when  Dacres  entered. 

' '  Hallo,  old  man,  what's  up  now  ?  How  goes 
the  war?"  said  Hawbury.  "  But  what  the  mis 
chief's  the  matter  ?  You  look  cut  up.  Your 
brow  is  sad  ;  your  eyes  beneath  flash  like  a  fal 
chion  from  its  sheath.  What's  happened  ?  You 
look  half  snubbed,  and  half  desperate." 

Dacres  said  not  a  word,  but  flung  himself 
into  a  chair  with  a  look  that  suited  Hawbury's 
description  of  him  quite  accurately.  His  brows 
lowered  into  a  heavy  frown,  his  lips  were  com 
pressed,  and  his  breath  came  quick  and  hard 
through  his  inflated  nostrils.  He  sat  thus  for 
some  time  without  taking  any  notice  whatever 
of  his  friend,  and  at  length  lighted  a  cigar, 
which  he  smoked,  as  he  often  did  when  ex 
cited,  in  great  voluminous  puffs.  Hawbury 
said  nothing,  but  after  one  or  two"  quick  glances 
at  his  friend,  rang  a  bell  and  ordered  some 
"Bass." 

"  Here,  old  fellow,"  said  he,  drawing  the  at 
tention  of  Dacres  to  the  refreshing  draught. 
"Take  some — 'Quaff,  oh,  quaff  this  kind  ne 
penthe,  and  forget  thy  lost  Lenore.'  " 

Dacres  at  this  gave  a  heavy  sigh  that  sound 
ed  like  a  groan,  and  swallowed  several  tumblers 
in  quick  succession. 


"Hawbury!"  said  he  at  length,  in  a  half- 
stifled  voice. 

"  Well,  old  man  ?" 

"I've  had  a  blow  to-day  full  on  the  breast 
that  fairly  staggered  me." 

"By  Jove!" 

"  Fact. .  I've  just  come  from  a  mad  ride 
along  the  shore.  I've  been  mad,  I  think,  for 
two  or  three  hours.  Of  all  the  monstrous, 
abominable,  infernal,  and  unheard-of  catastro 
phes  this  is  the  worst." 

He  stopped,  and  puffed  away  desperately  at 
his  cigar. 

"Don't  keep  a  fellow  in  suspense  this  way," 
said  Hawbury  at  last.  "  What's  up  ?  Out 
with  it,  man." 

"  Well,  you  know,  yesterday  I  called  there." 

Hawbury  nodded. 

"  She  was  not  at  home." 

"So  you  said." 

"  You  know  she  really  wasn't,  for  I  told  you 
that  I  met  their  carriage.  The  whole  party 
were  in  it,  and  on  the  front  seat  beside  Minnie 
there  was  another  lady.  This  is  the  one  that 
I  had  not  seen  before.  She  makes  the  fourth 
in  that  party.  She  and  Minnie  had  their  backs 
turned  as  they  came  up.  The  other  ladies 
bowed  as  they  passed,  and  as  I  held  off  my  hat 
I  half  turned  to  catch  Minnie's  eyes,  when  I 
caught  sight  of  the  face  of  the  lady.  It  startled 
me  so  much  that  I  was  thunder-struck,  and 
stood  there  with  my  hat  off  after  they  had 
passed  me  for  some  time." 

"  You  said  nothing  about  that,  old  chap. 
Who  the  deuce  could  she  have  been  ?" 

"No,  I  said  nothing  about  it.  As  I  cantered 
off  I  began  to  think  that  it  was  only  a  fancy  of 
mine,  and  finally  I  was  sure  of  it,  and  laughed 
it  off.  For,  you  must  know,  the  lady's  face 
looked  astonishingly  like  a  certain  face  that  I 
don't  particularly  care  to  see — certainly  not  in 
such  close  connection  with  Minnie.  But,  yon 
see,  I  thought  it  might  have  been  my  fancy,  so 
that  I  finally  shook  off  the  feeling,  and  said  no 
thing  to  you  about  it." 

Dacres  paused  here,  rubbed  his  hand  violent 
ly  over  his  hair  at  the  place  where  the  scar  was, 
and  then,  frowning  heavily,  resumed  : 

"Well,  this  afternoon  I  called  again.  They 
were  at  home.  On  entering  I  found  three  la 
dies  there.  One  was  Lady  Dalrymple,  and  the 
others  were  Minnie  and  her  friend  Ethel — either 
her  friend  or  her  sister.  I  think  she's  her  sis 
ter.  Well,  I  sat  for  about  five  minutes,  and 
was  just  beginning  to  feel  the  full  sense  of  my 
happiness,  when  the  door  opened  and  another 
lady  entered.  Hawbury" — and  Dacres's  tones 
deepened  into  an  awful  solemnity — "  Hawbury, 
it  was  the  lady  that  I  saw  in  the  carriage  yes 
terday.  One  look  at  her  was  enough.  I  was 
assured  then  that  my  impressions  yesterday 
were  not  dreams,  but  the  damnable  and  abhor 
rent  truth!" 

"What  impressions — you  haven't  told  me  yet, 
you  know  ?" 

"  Wait  a  minute.    I  rose  as  she  entered,  and 


42 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"  I  STOOD  TRANSFIXED. 


confronted  her.  She  looked  at  me  calmly,  and 
then  stood  as  though  expecting  to  be  intro 
duced.  There  was  no  emotion  visible  what 
ever.  She  was  prepared  for  it :  I  was  not : 
and  so  she  was  as  cool  as  when  I  saw  her  last, 
and,  what  is  more,  just  as  young  and  beautiful." 

"The  devil!"  cried  Hawbury. 

Dacres  poured  out  another  glass  of  ale  and 
drank  it.  His  hand  trembled  slightly  as  he  put 
down^  the  glass,  and  he  sat  for  some  time  in 
thought  before  he  went  on. 

"Well,  Lady  Dairy mple  introduced  us.  It 
was  Mrs.  Willoughby !" 

"By  Jove!"  cried  Hawbury.  "I  saw  you 
were  coming  to  that." 

"  Well,  you  know,  the  whole  thing  was  so 
sudden,  so  unexpected,  and  so  perfectly  over 
whelming,  that  I  stood  transfixed.  I  said  no 
thing.  I  believe  I  bowed,  and  then  somehow 
or  other,  I  really  don't  know  how,  I  got  away, 
and,  mounting  my  horse,  rode  off  like  a  mad 
man.  Then  I  came  home,  and  here  you  see 
me." 

There  was  a  silence  now  for  some  time. 

"Are  you  sure  that  it  was  your  wife?" 


"Of  course  I  am.     How  could  I  be  mis 
taken  ?" 

"Are  you  sure  the  name  was  Willoughby?" 
"  Perfectly  sure." 

"And  that  is  the  name  your  wife  took ?" 
"  Yes  ;  I  told  you  so  before,  didn't  I  ?" 
"  Yes.     But  think  now.     Mightn't  there  be 
some  mistake  ?" 

"Pooh  !  how  could  there  be  any  mistake?'' 
"  Didn't  you  see  any  change  in  her  ?" 
"No,  only  that  she  looked  much  more  quiet 
than  she  used  to.     Not  so  active,  you  know. 
In  her  best  days  she  was  always  excitable,  and 
a  little  demonstrative  ;  but  now  she  seems  to 
have  sobered  down,  and  is  as  quiet  and  well- 
bred  as  any  of  the  others." 

"Was  there  not  any  change  in  her  at  all?" 
"Not  so  much  as  I  would  have  supposed; 
certainly  not  so  much  as  there  is  in  me.  But 
then  I've  been  knocking  about  all  over  the 
world,  and  she's  been'living  a  life  of  pence  and 
culm,  with  the  sweet  consciousness  of  having 
triumphed  over  a  hated  husband,  and  possess 
ing  a  handsome  competency.  Now  she  min 
gles  in  the  best  society.  She  associates  with- 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


43 


lords  and  ladies.  She  enjoys  life  in  England, 
while  I  am  an  exile.  No  doubt  she  passes  for 
a  fine  young  widow.  No  doubt,  too,  she  has 
lots  of  admirers.  They  aspire  to  her  hand. 
They  write  poetry  to  her.  They  make  love  to 
her.  Confound  her!" 

Dacres's  voice  grew  more  and  more  agitated 
and  excited  as  he  spoke,  and  at  length  his  ti 
rade  against  his  wife  ended  in  something  that 
was  almost  a  roar.. 

Hawbury  said  nothing,  but  listened,  with  his 
face  full  of  sympathy.  At  last  his  pent-up 
feeling  found  expression  in  his  favorite  excla 
mation,  "By  Jove!" 

"  Wouldn't  I  be  justified  in  wringing  her 
neck  ?"  asked  Dacres,  after  a  pause.  "  And 
what's  worse,"  he  continued,  without  waiting 
for  an  answer  to  his  question — "  what's  worse, 
her  presence  here  in  this  unexpected  way  has 
given  me,  me,  mind  you,  a  sense  of  guilt,  while 
she  is,  of  course,  immaculate.  /,  mind  you — 
/,  the  injured  husband,  with  the  scar  on  my 
head  from  a  wound  made  by  her  hand,  and 
all  the  ghosts  of  my  ancestors  howling  curses 
over  me  at  night  for  my  desolated  and  ruined 
home — /  am  to  be  conscience-stricken  in  her 
presence,  as  if  I  were  a  felon,  while  she,  the  re 
ally  guilty  one — the  blight  and  bitter  destruction 
of  my  life — she  is  to  appear  before  me  now  as 
injured,  and  must  make  her  appearance  here, 
standing  by  the  side  of  that  sweet  child-angel, 
and  warning  me  away.  Confound  it  all,  man  ! 
Do  you  mean  to  say  that  such  a  thing  is  to  be 
borne?" 

Dacres  was  now  quite  frantic ;  so  Hawbury, 
with  a  sigh  of  perplexity,  lighted  a  fresh  cigar, 
and  thus  took  refuge  from  the  helplessness  of 
his  position.  It  was  clearly  a  state  of  things 
in  which  advice  was  utterly  useless,  and  conso 
lation  impossible.  What  could  he  advise,  or 
what  consolation  could  he  offer  ?  The  child- 
angel  was  now  out  of  his  friend's  reach,  and  the 
worst  fears  of  the  lover  were  more  than  real 
ized. 

"  I  told  you  I  was  afraid  of  this,"  continued 
Dacres.  "  I  had  a  suspicion  that  she  was  alive, 
and  I  firmly  believe  she'll  outlive  me  forty 
years  ;  but  I  must  say  I  never  expected  to  see 
her  in  this  way,  under  -such  circumstances. 
And  then  to  find  her  so  infernally  beautiful ! 
Confound  her  !  she  don't  look  over  twenty-five. 
How  the  mischief  does  she  manage  it  ?  Oh, 
she's  a  deep  one!  But  perhaps  she's  changed. 
She  seems  so  calm,  and  came  into  the  room  so 
gently,  and  looked  at  me  so  steadily.  Not  a 
tremor,  not  a  shake,  as  I  live.  Calm,  Sir ; 
cool  as  steel,  and  hard  too.  She  looked  away, 
and  then  looked  back.  They  were  searching 
glances,  too,  as  though  they  read  me  through 
and  through.  Well,  there  was  no  occasion  for 
that.  She  ought  to  know  Scone  Dacres  well 
enough,  I  swear.  Cool !  And  there  stood  I, 
with  the  blood  flashing  to  my  head,  and  throb 
bing  fire  underneath  the  scar  of  her  wound — 
hers — her  own  property,  for  she  made  it ! 
That  was  the  woman  that  kicked  me,  that 


struck  at  me,  that  caused  the  destruction  of  my 
ancestral  house,  that  drove  me  to  exile,  and' 
that  now  drives  me  back  from  my  love.  But, 
by  Heaven !  it  '11  take  more  than  her  to  do  it ; 
and  I'll  show  her  again,  as  I  showed  her  once 
before,  that  Scone  Dacres  is  her  master.  And, 
by  Jove !  she'll  find  that  it  '11  take  more  than 
herself  to  keep  me  away  from  Minnie  Fay." 

"See  here,  old  boy,"  said  Hawbury,  "you 
may  as  well  throw  up  the  sponge." 

"I  won't,"  said  Dacres,  gruffly. 

"  You  see  it  isn't  your  wife  that  you  have  to 
consider,  but  the  girl ;  and  do  you  think  the 
girl  or  her  friends  would  have  a  married  man 
paying  his  attentions  in  that  quarter?  Would 
you  have  the  face  to  do  it  under  your  own  wife's' 
eye?  By  Jove!" 

The  undeniable  truth  of  this  assertion  was 
felt  by  Dacres  even  in  his  rage.  But  the  very 
fact  that  it  was  unanswerable,  and  that  he  was 
helpless,  only  served  to  deepen  and  intensify 
his  rage.  Yet  he  said  nothing;  it  was  only  in 
his  face  and  manner  that  his  rage  was  mani 
fested.  He  appeared  almost  to  suffocate  un 
der  the  rush  of  fierce,  contending  passions ;  big 
distended  veins  swelled  out  in  his  forehead, 
whicli  was  also  drawn  far  down  in  a  gloomy 
frown  ;  his  breath  came  thick  and  fast,  and  his 
hands  were  clenched  tight  together.  Hawbury 
watched  him  in  silence  as  before,  feeling  all 
the  time  the  impossibility  of  saying  any  thing 
that  could  be  of  any  use  whatever. 

"  Well,  old  fellow,"  said  Dacres  at  last,  giv 
ing  a  long  breath,  in  which  he  seemed  to  throw 
off  some  of  his  excitement,  "you're  right,  of 
course,  and  I  am  helpless.  There's  no  chance' 
for  me.  Paying  attentions  is  out  of  the  ques 
tion,  and  the  only  thing  for  me  to  do  is  to  give 
up  the  whole  thing.  But  that  isn't  to  be  done: 
at  once.  It's  been  long  since  I've  seen  any 
one  for  whom  I  felt  any  tenderness,  and  this 
little  thing,  I  know,  is  fond  of  me.  I  can't 
quit  her  at  once.  I  must  stay  on  for  a  time, 
at  least,  and  have  occasional  glimpses  at  her. 
It  gives  me  a  fresh  sense  of  almost  heavenly 
sweetness  to  look  at  her  fair  young  face.  Be 
sides,  I  feel  that  I  am  far  more  to  her  than  any 
other  man.  No  other  man  has  stood  to  her  in 
the  relation  in  which  I  have  stood.  Recollect 
how  I  saved  her  from  death.  That  is  no  light 
thing.  She  must  feel  toward  me  as  she  has 
never  felt  to  any  other.  She  is  not  one  who 
can  forget  how  I  snatched  her  from  a  fearful 
death,  and  brought  her  back  to  life.  Every 
time  she  looks  at  me  she  seems  to  convey  all' 
that  to  me  in  her  glance." 

"Oh,  well,  my  dear  fellow,  really  now," said 
Hawbury,  "just  think.  You  can't  do  any 
thing." 

"But. I  don't  want  to  do  any  thing." 

"  It  never  can  end  in  any  thing,  you  know." 

"But  I  don't  want  it  to  end  in  any  thing." 

"You'll  only  bother  her  by  entangling  her 
affections." 

''But  I  don't  want  to  entangle  her  affec 
tions. " 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"Then  what  the  mischief  do  yon  want  to 
do?" 

"Why,  very  little.  I'll  start  off  soon  for  the 
uttermost  ends  of  the  earth,  but  I  wish  to  stay 
a  little  longer  and  see  her  sweet  face.  It's  not 
much,  is  it  ?  It  won't  compromise  her,  will 
it?  She  need  not  run  any  risk,  need  she  ? 
And  I'm  a  man  of  honor,  am  I  not  ?  You 
don't  suppose  me  to  be  capable  of  any  base 
ness,  do  you?" 

"My  dear  fellow,  how  absurd!  Of  course 
not  Only  I  was  afraid  by  giving  way  to  this 
you  might  drift  on  into  a  worse  state  of  mind. 
She's  all  safe,  I  fancy,  surrounded  as  she  is  by 
so  many  guardians.  It  is  you  that  I'm  anxious 
about." 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  old  chap,  about  me. 
I  feel  calmer  already.  I  can  face  my  situation 
firmly,  and  prepare  for  the  worst.  While  I 
have  been  sitting  here  I  have  thought  out  the 
future.  I  will  stay  here  four  or  five  weeks.  I 
will  only  seek  solace  for  myself  by  riding  about 
where  I  may  meet  her.  I  do  not  intend  to  go 
to  the  house  at  all.  My  demon  of  a  wife  may 
have  the  whole  house  to  herself.  I  won't  even 
give  her  the  pleasure  of  supposing  that  she  has 
thwarted  me.  She  shall  never  even  suspect 
the  state  of  my  heart.  That  would  be  bliss 
indeed  to  one  like  her,  for  then  she  would  find 
herself  able  to  put  me  on  the  rack.  No,  my 
boy ;  I've  thought  it  all  over.  Scone  Dacres 
is  himself  again.  No  more  nonsense  now.  Do 
you  understand  now  what  I  mean  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Hawbury,  slowly,  and  in  his 
worst  drawl;  "but  ah,  really,  don't  you  think 
it's  nil  nonsense  ?" 

"What?" 

"  Why,  this  ducking  and  diving  about  to  get 
a  glimpse  of  her  face." 

"  1  don't  intend  to  duck  and  dive  about.  I 
merely  intend  to  ride  like  any  other  gentle 
man.  What  put  that  into  your  head,  man  ?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know;  I  gathered  it  from 
the  way  you  expressed  yourself." 

"Well,  I  don't  intend  any  thing  of  the  kind. 
I  simply  wish  to  have  occasional  looks  at  her 
— to  get  a  bow  and  a  smile  of  recognition 
when  I  meet  her,  and  have  a  few  addition 
al  recollections  to  turn  over  in  my  thoughts 
after  I  have  left  her  forever.  Perhaps  this 
seems  odd." 

"  Oh  no,  it  doesn't.  I  quite  understand  it. 
A  passing  smile  or  a  parting  sigh  is  sometimes 
more  precious  than  any  other  memory.  I  know 
all  about  it,  you  know — looks,  glances,  smiles, 
sighs,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know." 

"Well,  now,  old  chap,  there's  one  thing  I 
want  you  to  do  for  me." 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  It  isn't  much,  old  fellow.  It  isn't  much, 
i  I  simply  wish  yon  to  visit  there." 

"  Me  ? — visit  there  f  What !  me — and  visit  ? 
Why,  my  dear  fellow,  don't  you  know  how  I 
hate  such  bother  ?" 

"  I  know  all  about  that  ;  but,  old  boy,  it's 
only  for  a  few  weeks  I  ask  it,  and  for  my 


sake,  as  a  particular  favor.  I  put  it  in  that 
light." 

"  Oh,  well,  really,  dear  boy,  if  you  put  it  in 
that  light,  you  know,  of  course,  that  I'll  do  any 
thing,  even  if  it  comes  to  letting  myself  be 
bored  to  death." 

"  Just  a  visit  a  day  or  so." 

"  A  visit  a  day  !"     Hawbury  looked  aghast. 

"  It  isn't  much  to  ask,  you  know,"  continued 
Dacres.  "You  see  my  reasop  is  this:  I  can't 
go  there  myself,  as  you  see,  but  I  hunger  to 
hear  about  her.  I  should  like  to  hear  how  she 
looks,  and  what  she  says,  and  whether  she 
thinks  of  me." 

"  Oh,  come  now !  look  here,  my  dear  fel 
low,  you're  putting  it  a  little  too  strong.  You 
don't  expect  me  to  go  there  and  talk  to  her 
about  you,  you  know.  Why,  man  alive,  that's 
quite  out  of  my  way.  I'm  not  much  of  a  talk 
er  at  any  time ;  and  besides,  you  know,  there's 
something  distasteful  in  acting  as — as —  Bv 
Jove !  I  don't  know  what  to  call  it." 

"  My  dear  boy,  you  don't  understand  me. 
Do  you  think  I'm  a  sneak?  Do  you  suppose 
I'd  ask  you  to  act  as  a  go-between  ?  Nonsense  ! 
I  merely  ask  you  to  go  as  a  cursory  visitor.  I 
don't  want  you  to  breathe  my  name,  or  even 
think  of  me  while  you  are  there." 

"  But  suppose  I  make  myself  too  agreeable 
to  the  young  lady.  By  Jove!  she  might  think 
I  was  paying  her  attentions,  you  know." 

"  Oh  no,  no !  believe  me,  you  don't  know 
her.  She's  too  earnest ;  she  has  too  much  soul 
to  shift  and  change.  Oh  no !  I  feel  that  she 
is  mine,  and  that  the  image  of  my  own  misera 
ble  self  is  indelibly  impressed  upon  her  heart. 
Oh  no !  you  don't  know  her.  If  you  had  heard 
her  thrilling  expressions  of  gratitude,  if  you  had 
seen  the  beseeching  and  pleading  looks  which 
she  gave  me,  you  would  know  that  she  is  one 
of  those  natures  who  love  once,  and  once  only." 

"  Oh,  by  Jove,  now  !  Come !  If  that's  the 
state  of  the  case,  why,  I'll  go." 

"Thanks,  old  boy." 

"  As  a  simple  visitor." 

"Yes — that's  all." 

"  To  talk  about  the  weather,  and  that  rot." 

"  Yes." 

"And  no  more." 

"No." 

"  Not  a  word  about  you." 

"Not  a  word." 

"No  leading  questions,  and  that  sort  of 
thing." 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind." 

"  No  hints,  no  watching,  but  just  as  if  I  went 
there  of  my  own  accord." 

"  That's  exactly  the  thing." 

"  Very  well ;  and  now,  pray,  what  good  is  all 
this  going  to  do  to  yon,  my  boy  ?" 

"  Well,  just  this ;  I  can  talk  to  you  about  her 
every  evening,  and  yon  can  tell  me  how  she 
looks,  and  what  she  says,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing,  you  know." 

"By  Jove!" 

"  And  you'll  cheer  my  heart,  olJ  fellow.'1 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


45 


"  Heavens  and  earth  !  old  boy,  you  don't 
seem  to  think  that  this  is  going  to  be  no  end  of 
a  bore." 

"  I  know  it,  old  man  ;  but  then,  you  know, 
I'm  desperate  just  now." 

"By  Jove!" 

And  Hawbury,  uttering  this  exclamation,  re 
lapsed  into  silence,  and  wondered  over  his 
friend's  infatuation. 

On  the  following  day  when  Dacres  came  in 
he  found  that  Hawbury  had  kept  his  word. 

"  Great  bore,  old  fellow,"  said  he  ;  "  but  I 
did  it.  The  old  lady  is  an  old  acquaintance, 
you  know.  I'm  going  there  to-morrow  again. 
Didn't  see  any  thing  to-day  of  the  child-angel. 
But  it's  no  end  of  a  bore,  you  know." 


"IT'S   HE!'  8HK   MUKMURED." 


CHAPTER   XI. 

FALSE    AND    FORGETFUL. 

THE  day  when  Lord  Hawbury  called  on 
Lady  Dalrymple  was  a  very  eventful  one  in  his 
life,  and  had  it  not  been  for  a  slight  peculiarity 
of  his,  the  immediate  result  of  that  visit  would 
have  been  of  a  highly  important  character.  This 
slight  peculiarity  consisted  in  the  fact  that  he 
was  short-sighted,  and,  therefore,  on  a  very  crit 
ical  occasion  turned  away  from  that  which  would 
have  been  his  greatest  joy,  although  it  was  full 
before  his  gaze. 

It  happened  in  this  wise : 

On  the  day  when  Hawbury  called,  Ethel  hap 
pened  to  be  sitting  by  the  window,  and  saw 


him  as  he  rode  up.  Now  the  last  time  that 
she  had  seen  him  he  had  a  very  different  ap 
pearance — all  his  hair  being  burned  off,  from 
head  and  cheeks  and  chin ;  and  the  whiskers 
which  he  had  when  she  first  met  him  had  been 
of  a  different  cut  from  the  present  appendages. 
In  spite  of  this  she  recognized  him  almost  in 
a  moment ;  and  her  heart  beat  fast,  and  her 
color  came  and  went,  and  her  hands  clutched 
the  window  ledge  convulsively. 

"It's  he!"  she  murmured. 

Of  course  there  was  only  one  idea  in  her 
mind,  and  that  was  that  he  had  heard  of  her 
presence  in  Naples,  and  had  come  to  call  on 
her. 

She  sat  there  without  motion,  with  her  head 
eagerly  bent  forward,  and  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
him.  He  looked  up  carelessly  as  he  came 
along,  and  with  his  chin  in  the  air,  in  a  fashion 
peculiar  to  him,  which,  by-the-way,  gave  a  quite 
unintentional  superciliousness  to  his  expression. 
For  an  instant  his  eyes  rested  upon  her,  then 
they  moved  away,  without  the  slightest  recog 
nition,  and  wandered  elsewhere. 

Ethel's  heart  seemed  turned  to  stone.  He 
had  seen  her.  He  had  not  noticed  her.  He 
had  fixed  his  eyes  on  her  and  then  looked  away. 
Bitter,  indeed,  was  all  this  to  her.  To  think 
that  after  so  long  a  period  of  waiting  —  after 
such  hope  and  watching  as  hers  had  been — 
that  this  should  be  the  end.  She  turned  away 
from  the  window,  with  a  choking  sensation  in 
her  throat.  No  one  was  in  the  room.  She 
was  alone  with  her  thoughts  and  her  tears. 

Suddenly  her  mood  changed.  A  thought 
came  to  her  which  dispelled  her  gloom.  The 
glance  that  he  had  given  was  too  hasty ;  per 
haps  he  really  had  not  fairly  looked  at  her. 
No  doubt  he  had  come  for  her,  and  she  would 
shortly  be  summoned  down. 

And  now  this  prospect  brought  new  hope. 
Light  returned  to  her  eyes,  and  joy  to  her 
heart.  Yes,  she  would  be  summoned.  She 
must  prepare  herself  to  encounter  his  eager 
gaze.  Quickly  she  stepped  to  the  mirror,  hast 
ily  she  arranged  those  little  details  in  which 
consists  the  charm  of  a  lady's  dress,  and  se 
verely  she  scrutinized  the  face  and  figure  re 
flected  there.  The  scrutiny  was  a  satisfactory 
one.  Face  and  figure  were  pei'fect ;  nor  was 
there  in  the  world  any  thing  more  graceful  and 
more  lovely  than  the  image  there,  though  the 
one  who  looked  upon  it  was  far  too  self-dis 
trustful  to  entertain  any  such  idea  as  that. 

Then  she  seated  herself  and  waited.  The 
time  moved  slowly,  indeed,  as  she  waited  there. 
After  a  few  minutes  she  found  it  impossible  to 
sit  any  longer.  She  walked  to  the  door,  held 
it  open,  and  listened.  She  heard  his  voice  be 
low  quite  plainly.  They  had  two  suits  of 
rooms  in  the  house — the  bedrooms  up  stairs 
and  reception-roorns  below.  Here  Lord  Haw 
bury  was,  now,  within  hearing  of  Ethel.  Well 
she  knew  thnt  voice.  She  listened  and  frowned. 
The  tone  was.  too  flippant.  He  talked  like  a 
man  without  a  care — like  a  butterfly  of  society 


.46 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


— and  that  was  a  class  which  she  scorned. 
Here  he  was,  keeping  her  waiting.  Here  he 
was,  keeping  up  a  hateful  clatter  of  small-talk, 
while  her  heart  was  aching  with  suspense. 

Ethel  stood  there  listening.  Minute  succeed 
ed  to  minute.  There  was  no  request  for  her. 
How  strong  was  the  contrast  between  the  cool 
indifference  of  the  man  below,  and  the  fever 
ish  impatience  of  that  listener  above !  A  wild 
impulse  came  to  her  to  go  down,  under  the  pre 
tense  of  looking  for  something;  then  another 
to  go  down  and  out  for  a  walk,  so  that  he  might 
see  her.  But  in  either  case  pride  held  her  back. 
How  could  she  ?  Had  he  not  already  seen  her  ? 
Must  he  not  know  perfectly  well  that  she  was 
there  ?  No ;  if  he  did  not  call  for  her  she  could 
not  go.  She  could  not  make  advances. 

Minute  succeeded  to  minute,  and  Ethel  stood 
burning  with  impatience,  racked  with  suspense, 
a  prey  to  the  bitterest  feelings.  Still  no  mes 
sage.  Why  did  he  delay?  Her  heart  ached 
now  worse  than  ever,  the  choking  feeling  in 
her  throat  returned,  and  her  eyes  grew  moist. 
She  steadied  herself  by  holding  to  the  door. 
Her  fingers  grew  white  at  the  tightness  of  her 
grasp ;  eyes  and  ears  were  strained  in  their  in 
tent  watchfulness  over  the  room  below. 

Of  course  the  caller  below  was  in  a  perfect 
state  of  ignorance  about  all  this.  He  had  not 
the  remotest  idea  of  that  one  who  now  stood 
so  near.  He  came  as  a  martyr.  He  came  to 
make  a  call.  It  was  a  thing  he  detested.  It 
bored  him.  To  a  man  like  him  the  one  thing 
to  be  avoided  on  earth  was  a  bore.  To  be 
bored  was  to  his  mind  the  uttermost  depth  of 
misfortune.  This  he  had  voluntarily  accepted. 
He  was  being  bored,  and  bored  to  death. 

Certainly  no  man  ever  accepted  a  calamity 
more  gracefully  than  Hawbury.  He  was  charm 
ing,  affable,  easy,  chatty.  Of  course  he  was 
known  to  Lady  Dalrymple.  The  Dowager  could 
make  herself  as  agreeable  as  any  lady  living,  ex 
cept  young  and  beautiful  ones.  The  conversa 
tion,  therefore,  was  easy  and  flowing.  Haw- 
bury  excelled  in  this. 

Now  there  are  several  variations  in  the  great 
art  of  expression,  and  each  of  these  is  a  minor 
art  by  itself.    Among  these  may  be  enumerated : 
First,  of  course,  the  art  of  novel-writing. 
Second,  the  art  of  writing  editorials. 
Third,  the  art  of  writing  paragraphs. 
After  these  come  all  the  arts  of  oratory,  let 
ter-writing,  essay -writing,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing,  among  which  there  is  one  to  which  I  wish 
particularly  to  call  attention,  and  this  is : 
The  art  of  small-talk. 

Now  this  art  Hawbury  had  to  an  extraor 
dinary  degree  of  perfection.  He  knew  how  to 
beat  out  the  faintest  shred  of  an  idea  into  an 
illimitable  surface  of  small -talk.  He  never 
took  refuge  in  the  weather.  He  left  that  to 
bunglers  and  beginners.  His  resources  were  of 
a  different  character,  and  were  so  skillfully  man 
aged  that  he  never  failed  to  leave  a  very  agree 
able  impression.  Small-talk  !  Why,  I've  been 
in  situations  sometimes  where  I  would  have  giv 


en  the  power  of  writing  like  Dickens  (if  I  had 
it)  for  perfection  in  this  last  art. 

But  this  careless,  easy,  limpid,  smooth,  nat 
ural,  pleasant,  and  agreeable  flow  of  chat  was 
nothing  but  gall  and  wormwood  to  the  listener 
above.  She  ought  to  be  there.  Why  was  she 
so  slighted  ?  Could  it  be  possible  that  he  would 
go  away  without  seeing  her  ? 

She  was  soon  to  know. 

She  heard  him  rise.  She  heard  him  saunter 
to  the  door. 

"Thanks,  yes.  Ha,  ha,  you're  too  kind — 
really — yes — very  happy,  you  knonr.  To-mor 
row,  is  it?  Good-morning." 

And  with  these  words  he  went  out. 

With  pale  face  and  staring  eyes  Ethel  darted 
back  to  the  window.  He  did  not  see  her.  His 
back  was  turned.  He  mounted  his  horse  and 
gayly  cantered  away.  For  full  five  minutes 
Ethel  stood,  crouched  in  the  shadow  of  the 
window,  staring  after  him,  with  her  dark  eyes 
burning  and  glowing  in  the  intensity  of  their 
gaze.  Then  she  turned  away  with  a  bewildered 
look.  Then  she  locked  the  door.  Then  she 
flung  herself  upon  the  sofa,  buried  her  head  in 
her  hands,  and  burst  into  a  convulsive  passion 
of  tears.  Miserable,  indeed,  were  the  thoughts 
that  came  now  to  that  poor  stricken  girl  as  she 
lay  there  prostrate.  She  had  waited  long,  and 
hoped  fondly,  and  all  her  waiting  and  all  her 
hope  had  been  for  this.  It  was  for  this  that  she 
had  been  praying — for  this  that  she  had  so  fond 
ly  cherished  his  memory.  He  had  come  at  last, 
and  he  had  gone;  but  for  her  he  had  certainly 
shown  nothing  save  an  indifference  as  profound 
as  it  was  inexplicable. 

Ethel's  excuse  for  not  appearing  at  the  dinner- 
table  was  a  severe  headache.  Her  friends  in 
sisted  on  seeing  her  and  ministering  to  her  suf 
ferings.  Among  other  things,  they  tried  to  cheer 
her  by  telling  her  of  Hawbury.  Lady  Dalrym 
ple  was  full  of  him.  She  told  all  about  his  fam 
ily,  his  income,  his  habits,  and  his  mode  of  life. 
She  mentioned,  with  much  satisfaction,  that  he 
had  made  inquiries  after  Minnie,  and  that  she 
had  promised  to  introduce  him  to  her  the  next 
time  he  called.  Upon  which  he  had  laughing 
ly  insisted  on  calling  the  next  day.  All  of 
which  led  Lady  Dalrymple  to  conclude  that  he 
had  seen  Minnie  somewhere,  and  had  fallen  in 
love  with  her. 

This  was  the  pleasing  strain  of  conversation 
into  which  the  ladies  were  led  off  by  Lady  Dal 
rymple.  When  I  say  the  ladies,  I  mean  Lady 
Dalrymple  and  Minnie.  Mrs.  Willoughby  said 
nothing,  except  once  or  twice  when  she  en 
deavored  to  give  a  turn  to  the  conversation,  in 
which  she  was  signally  unsuccessful.  Lady  Dal 
rymple  and  Minnie  engaged  in  an  animated  ar 
gument  over  the  interesting  subject  of  Haw- 
bury's  intentions,  Minnie  taking  her  stand  on 
the  ground  of  his  indifference,  the  other  main 
taining  the  position  that  he  was  in  love.  Minnie 
declared  thatshe  had  never  seen  him.  Lady  Dal 
rymple  asserted  her  belief  that  he  had  seen  her. 
The  latter  also  asserted  that  Hawburv  would  no 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


47 


doubt  be  a  constant 
visitor,  and  gave  Min 
nie  very  sound  advice 
as  to  the  best  mode  of 
treating  him. 

On  the  following 
day  Hawbury  called, 
and  was  introduced  to 
Minnie.  He  chatted 
with  her  in  his  usual 
style,  and  Lady  Dai 
ry  mple  was  more  than 
ever  confirmed  in  her 
first  belief.  He  sug 
gested  a  ride,  and  the 
suggestion  was  taken 
up. 

If  any  thing  had 
been  needed  to  com 
plete  Ethel's  despair 
it  was  this  second  visit 
and  the  project  of  a 
ride.  Mrs.  Willough- 
by  was  introduced  to 
him ;  but  he  took  lit 
tle  notice  of  her,  treat 
ing  her  with  a  kind  of 
reserve  that  was  a  lit 
tle  unusual  with  him. 
The  reason  of  this  was 
his  strong  sympathy 
with  his  friend,  and 
his  detestation  of  Mrs. 
Willoughby's  former 
history.  Mrs.  Wil- 
loughby,  however, 
had  to  ride  with 
them  when  they  went 
.out,  and  thus  she  was 
thrown  a  little  more 
into  Hawbury's  way. 

Ethel  never  made  her  appearance.  The 
headaches  which  she  avouched  were  not  pre 
tended.  They  were  real,  and  accompanied 
with  heartaches  that  were  far  more  painful. 
JIawbury  never  saw  her,  nor  did  he  ever  hear 
her  mentioned.  In  general  he  himself  kept  the 
conversation  in  motion ;  and  as  he  never  asked 
questions,  they,  of  course,  had  no  opportunity 
to  answer.  On  the  other  hand,  there  was  no 
occasion  to  volunteer  any  remarks  about  the 
number  or  the  character  of  their  party.  When 
he  talked  it  was  usually  with  Lady  Dalrymple 
and  Minnie;  and  with  these  the  conversation 
turned  always  upon  glittering. generalities,  and 
the  airy  nothings  of  pleasant  gossip.  All  this, 
then,  will  very  easily  account  for  the  fact  that 
Hawbury,  though  visiting  there  constantly,  nev 
er  once  saw  Ethel,  never  heard  her  name  men 
tioned,  and  had  not  the  faintest  idea  that  she 
was  so  near.  She,  on  the  other  hand,  feeling 
now  sure  that  he  was  utterly  false  and  complete 
ly  forgetful,  proudly  and  calmly  held  aloof,  and 
kept  out  of  his  way  with  the  most  jealous  care, 
until  at  last  she  staid  indoors  altogether,  for  fear, 
if  she  went  out,  that  she  might  meet  him  some- 


"TIIEN  SUB  FLUNG  HERSELF  UPON  TUB  BOFA." 


where.  For  such  a  meeting  she  did  not  feel  suf 
ficiently  strong. 

Often  she  thought  of  quitting  Naples  and  re 
turning  to  England.  Yet,  after  all,  she  found 
a  strange  comfort  in  being  there.  She  was  near 
him.  She  heard  his  voice  every  day,  and  saw 
his  face.  That  was  something.  And  it  was 
better  than  absence. 

Minnie  used  always  to  come  to  her  and  pour 
forth  long  accounts  of  Lord  Hawbury — how  he 
looked,  what  he  said,  what  he  did,  and  what  he 
proposed  to  do.  Certainly  there  was  not  the 
faintest  approach  to  love-making,  or  even  sen 
timent,  in  Hawbury's  attitude  toward  Minnie. 
His  words  were  of  the  world  of  small-talk — a 
world  where  sentiment  and  love-making  have 
but  little  place.  Still  there  was  the  evident  fact 
of  his  attentions,  which  were  too  frequent  to  be 
overlooked. 

Hawbury  rapidly  became  the  most  prominent 
subject  of  Minnie's  conversation.  She  used  to 
prattle  away  for  hours  about  him.  She  alluded 
admiringly  to  his  long  whiskers.  She  thought 
them  "  lovely."  She  said  that  he  was  "  awfully 
nice."  She  told  Mrs.  Willoughby  that  "he 


48 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


was  nicer  than  any  of  them ;  and  then,  Kitty 
darling,"  she  added,  "it's  so  awfully  good  of 
him  not  to  be  coming  and  saving  my  life,  and 
carrying  me  on  his  back  down  a  mountain,  like 
an  ogre,  and  then  pretending  that  he's  my  fa 
ther,  you  know. 

"  For  you  know,  Kitty  pet,  I've  always  longed 
so  awfully  to  see  some  really  nice  person,  you 
know,  who  wouldn't  go  and  save  my  life  and 
bother  me.  Now  he  doesn't  seem  a  bit  like 
proposing.  I  do  hope  he  won't.  Don't  you, 
Kitty  dearest?  It's  so  much  nicer  not  to  pro 
pose.  It's  so  horrid  when  they  go  and  propose. 
And  then,  you  know,  I've  had  so  much  of  that 
sort  of  thing.  So,  Kitty,  I  think  he's  really  the 
nicest  person  that  I  ever  saw,  and  I  really  think 
I'm  beginning  to  like  him." 

Far  different  from  these  were  the  conversa 
tions  which  Mrs.  Willoughby  had  with  Ethel. 
She  was  perfectly  familiar  with  Ethel's  story. 
It  had  been  confided  to  her  long  ago.  She 
alone  knew  why  it  was  that  Ethel  had  walked 
untouched  through  crowds  of  admirers.  The 
terrible  story  of  her  rescue  was  memorable  to 
her  for  other  reasons  ;  and  the  one  who  had 
taken  the  prominent  part  in  that  rescue  could 
not  be  without  interest  for  her. 

"  There  is  no  use,  Kitty — no  use  in  talking 
about  it  any  more,"  said  Ethel  one  day,  after 
Mrs.  Willoughby  had  been  urging  her  to  show 
herself.  "  I  can  not.  I  will  not.  He  has 
forgotten  me  utterly." 

"  Perhaps  he  has  no  idea  that  you  are  here. 
He  has  never  seen  you." 

"  Has  he  not  been  in  Naples  as  long  as  we 
have  ?  He  must  have  seen  me  in  the  streets. 
He  saw  Minnie." 

"  Do  you  think  it  likely  that  he  would  come 
to  this  house  and  slight  you?  If  he  had  for 
gotten  you  he  would  not  come  here." 

"  Oh  yes,  he  would.  He  comes  to  see  Min 
nie.  He  knows  I  am  here,  of  course.  He 
doesn't  care  one  atom  whether  I  make  my  ap 
pearance  or  not.  He  doesn't  even  give  me  a 
thought.  It's  so  long  since  that  time  that  he 
has  forgotten  even  my  existence.  He  has  been 
all  over  the  world  since  then,  and  has  had  a 
hundred  adventures.  I  have  been  living  quiet 
ly,  cherishing  the  remembrance  of  that  one 
thing." 

"Ethel,  is  it  not  worth  trying?  Go  down 
and  try  him." 

"I  can  not  bear  it.  I  can  not  look  at  him. 
I  lose  all  self-command  when  he  is  near.  I 
should  make  a  fool  of  myself.  He  would  look 
at  me  with  a  smile  of  pity.  Could  I  endure 
that  ?  No,  Kitty ;  my  weakness  must  never  be 
known  to  him." 

"Oh,  Ethel,  how  I  wish  you  could  try  it !" 

"Kitty,  just  think  how  utterly  I  am  forgot 
ten.  Mark  this  now.  He  knows  I  was  at  your 
house.  He  must  remember  your  name.  He 
wrote  to  me  there,  and  I  answered  him  from 
there.  He  sees  you  now,  and  your  name  must 
be  associated  with  mine  in  his  memory  of  me, 
if  he  has  any.  Tell  me  now,  Kitty,  has  he  ever 


mentioned  me?  has  he  ever  asked  you  about 
me?  has  he  ever  made  the  remotest  allusion  to 
me?" 

Ethel  spoke  rapidly  and  impetuously,  and  as 
she  spoke  she  raised  herself  from  the  sofa  where 
she  was  reclining,  and  turned  her  large,  earnest 
eyes  full  upon  her  friend  with  anxious  and  ea 
ger  watchfulness.  Mrs.  Willoughby  looked  back 
at  her  with  a  face  full  of  sadness,  and  mourn 
fully  shook  her  head. 

"  You  see,"  said  Ethel,  as  she  sank  down 
again — "you  see  how  true  my  impression  is." 

"I  must  say,"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby,  "that 
I  thought  of  this  before.  I  fully  expected  that 
he  would  make  some  inquiry  after  you.  I  was 
so  confident  in  the  noble  character  of  the  man, 
both  from  your  story  and  the  description  of  oth 
ers,  that  I  could  not  believe  you  were  right. 
But  you  are  right,  my  poor  Ethel.  I  wish  I 
could  comfort  you,  but  I  can  not.  Indeed,  my 
dear,  not  only  has  he  not  questioned  me  about 
you,  but  he  evidently  avoids  me.  It  is  not  that 
he  is  engrossed  with  Minnie,  for  he  is  not  so ; 
but  he  certainly  has  some  reason  of  his  own  for 
avoiding  me.  Whenever  he  speaks  to  me  there 
is  an  evident  effort  on  his  part,  and  though  per 
fectly  courteous,  his  manner  leaves  a  certain 
disagreeable  impression.  Yes,  he  certainly  has 
some  reason  for  avoiding  me." 

"The  reason  is  plain  enough,"  murmured 
Ethel.  "  He  wishes  to  prevent  you  from  speak 
ing  about  a  painful  subject,  or  at  least  a  dis 
tasteful  one.  He  keeps  you  off  at  a  distance  by 
an  excess  of  formality.  He  will  give  you  no 
opportunity  whatever  to  introduce  any  mention 
of  me.  And  now  let  me  also  ask  you  this — 
does  he  ever  take  any  notice  of  any  allusion 
that  may  be  made  to  me  ?" 

"I  really  don't  remember  hearing  any  allu 
sion  to  you." 

"  Oh,  that's  scarcely  possible !  You  and  Min 
nie  must  sometimes  have  alluded  to  'Ethel.'  " 

"  Well,  now  that  you  put  it  in  that  light,  I 
do  remember  hearing  Minnie  allude  to  you  on 
several  occasions.  Once  she  wondered  why 
'  Ethel'  did  not  ride.  Again  she  remarked  how 
'Ethel'  would  enjoy  a  particular  view." 

"And  he  heard  it?" 

"Oh,  of  course." 

"  Then  there  is  not  a  shadow  of  a  doubt  left. 
He  knows  I  am  here.  He  has  forgotten  me  so 
totally,  and  is  so  completely  indifferent,  that  he 
comes  here  and  pays  attention  to  another  who 
is  in  the  very  same  house  with  me.  It  is  hard. 
Oh,  Kitty,  is  it  not?  Is  it  not  bitter?  How 
could  I  have  thought  this  of  him?" 

A  high-hearted  girl  was  Ethel,  and  a  proud 
one  ;  but  at  this  final  confirmation  of  her  worst 
fears  there  burst  from  her  a  sharp  cry,  and  she 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  monned  and 
wept. 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


49 


CHAPTER  XII. 

GIRASOLB     AGAIN. 

ONE  day  Mrs.  Willoughby  and  Minnie  were 
out  driving.  Hawbury  was  riding  by  the  car 
riage  on  the  side  next  Minnie,  when  sudden 
ly  their  attention  was  arrested  by  a  gentleman 
on  horseback  who  was  approaching  them  at  an 
easy  pace,  and  staring  hard  at  them.  Min 
nie's  hand  suddenly  grasped  her  sister's  arm 
very  tightly,  while  her  color  came  and  went 
rapidly. 

"Oh  dear!"  sighed  Mrs.  Willonghby. 

"Oh,  what  shall  I  do?"  said  Minnie,  in  a 
hasty  whisper.  "Can't  we  pretend  not  to  see 
him?" 

"Nonsense,  you  little  goose,"  was  the  reply. 
"How  can  you  think  of  such  rudeness?" 

By  this  time  the  gentleman  had  reached 
them,  and  Mrs.  Willoughby  stopped  the  car 
riage,  and  spoke  to  him  in  a  tone  of  gracious 
suavity,  in  which  there  was  a  sufficient  recog 
nition  of  his  claims  upon  her  attention,  mingled 
with  a  slight  hauteur  that  was  intended  to  act 
as  a  check  upon  his  Italian  demonstrativeness. 

For  it  was  no  other  than  the  Count  Girasole, 
and  his  eyes  glowed  with  excitement  and  delight, 
and  his  hat  was  off  and  as  far  away  from  his  head 
as  possible,  and  a  thousand  emotions  contend 
ed  together  for  expression  upon  his  swarthy  and 
handsome  countenance.  As  soon  as  he  could 
speak  he  poured  forth  a  torrent  of  exclamations 
with  amazing  volubility,  in  the  midst  of  which 
his  keen  black  eyes  scrutinized  very  closely  the 
faces  of  the  ladies,  and  finally  turned  an  inter 
rogative  glance  upon  Hawbury,  who  sat  on  his 
horse  regarding  the  new-comer  with  a  certain 
mild  surprise  not  unmingled  with  supercilious 
ness.  Hawbury's  chin  was  in  the  air,  his  eyes 
rested  languidly  upon  the  stranger,  and  his  left 
hand  toyed  with  his  left  whisker.  He  really 
meant  no  offense  whatever.  He  knew  abso 
lutely  nothing  about  the  stranger,  and  had  not 
the  slightest  intention  of  giving  offense.  It 
was  simply  a  way  he  had.  It  was  merely  the 
normal  attitude  of  the  English  swell  before  he 
is  introduced.  As  it  was,  that  first  glance  which 
Girasole  threw  at  the  English  lord  inspired  him 
with  the  bitterest  hate,  which  was  destined  to 
produce  important  results  afterward. 

Mrs.  Willoughby  was  too  good-natured  and 
too  wise  to  slight  the  Count  in  any  way.  Aft 
er  introducing  the  two  gentlemen  she  spoke  a 
few  more  civil  words,  and  then  bowed  him  away. 
But  Girasole  did  not  at  all  take  the  hint.  On 
the  contrary,  as  the  carriage  started,  he  turned 
his  horse  and  rode  along  with  it  on  the  srde 
next  Mrs.  Willoughby.  Hawbury  elevated  his 
eyebrows,  and  stared  for  an  instant,  and  then 
went  on  talking  with  Minnie.  And  now  Min 
nie  showed  much  more  animation  than  usual. 
She  was  much  agitated  and  excited  by  this 
sudden  appearance  of  one  whom  she  hoped  to 
have  got  rid  of,  and  talked  rapidly,  and  laughed 
nervously,  and  was  so  terrified  at  the  idea  that 
Girasole  was  near  that  she  was  afraid  to  look 
D 


at  him,  but  directed  all  her  attention  to  Haw 
bury.  It  was  a  slight,  and  Girasole  showed  that 
he  felt  it ;  but  Minnie  could  not  help  it.  After 
a  time  Girasole  mastered  his  feelings,  and  be 
gan  an  animated  conversation  with  Mrs.  Wil 
loughby  in  very  broken  English.  Girasole's 
excitement  at  Minnie's  slight  made  him  some 
what  incoherent,  his  idioms  were  Italian  rather 
than  English,  and  his  pronunciation  was  very 
bad ;  he  also  had  a  fashion  of  using  an  Italian 
word  when  he  did  not  know  the  right  English 
one,  and  so  the  consequence  was  that  Mrs.  Wil 
loughby  understood  not  much  more  than  one- 
quarter  of  his  remarks. 

Mrs.  Willoughby  did  not  altogether  enjoy  this 
state  of  things,  and  so  she  determined  to  put 
an  end  to  it  by  shortening  her  drive.  She 
therefore  watched  for  an  opportunity  to  do  this 
so  as  not  to  make  it  seem  too  marked,  and 
finally  reached  a  place  which  was  suitable. 
Here  the  carriage  was  turned,  when,  just  as  it 
was  half-way  round,  they  noticed  a  horseman 
approaching.  It  was  Scone  Dacres,  who  had 
been  following  them  all  the  time,  and  who  had 
not  expected  that  the  carriage  would  turn. 
He  was  therefore  taken  completely  by  surprise, 
and  was  close  to  them  before  he  could  collect 
his  thoughts  so  as  to  do  any  thing.  To  evade 
them  was  impossible,  and  so  he  rode  on.  As 
he  approached,  the  ladies  saw  his  face.  It  was 
a  face  that  one  would  remember  afterward. 
There  was  on  it  a  profound  sadness  and  dejec 
tion,  while  at  the  same  time  the  prevailing  ex 
pression  was  one  of  sternness.  The  ladies  both 
bowed.  Scone  Dacres  raised  his  hat,  and  dis 
closed  his  broad,  massive  brow.  He  did  not 
look  at  Minnie.  His  gaze  was  fixed  on  Mrs. 
Willoughby.  Her  veil  was  down,  and  he  seem 
ed  trying  to  read  her  face  behind  it.  As  he 
passed  he  threw  a  quick,  vivid  glance  at  Gira 
sole.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  glance  by  any 
means,  and  was  full  of  quick,  fierce,  and  in 
solent  scrutiny — a  "  Who-the-devil-are-you  ?" 
glance.  It  was  for  but  an  instant,  however, 
and  then  he  glanced  at  Mrs.  Willoughby  again, 
and  then  he  had  passed. 

The  ladies  soon  reached  their  home,  and  at 
once  retired  to  Mrs.  Willoughby's  room.  There 
Minnie  flung  herself  upon  the  sofa,  and  Mrs. 
Willoughby  sat  down,  with  a  perplexed  face. 

"What  in  the  world  are  we  to  do?"  said 
she. 

"I'm  sure  /don't  know,"  said  Minnie.  "I 
knew  it  was  going  to  be  so.  I  said  that  he 
would  find  me  again." 

"  He  is  so  annoying." 

"Yes,  but,  Kitty  dear,  we  can't  be  rude  to 
him,  you  know,  for  he  saved  my  life.  But 
it's  horrid,  and  I  really  begin  to  feel  quite  des 
perate." 

"  I  certainly  will  not  let  him  see  you.  I 
have  made  up  my  mind  to  that." 

"And  oh!  how  he  u-illbe  coming  and  call- 
I  ing,  and  tease,  tease,  teasing.  Oh  dear!  I  do 
i  wonder  what  Lord  Hawbury  thought.  He 
|  looked  so  amazed.  And  then — oh,  Kitty  dear, 


50 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


it  was  so  awfully  funny ! — did  you  notice  that 
other  man  ?" 

Mrs.  Willoughby  nodded  her  head. 

"Did  you  notice  how  awfully  black  he  look 
ed?  He  wouldn't  look  at  me  at  all.  /know 
why." 

Mrs.  Willoughby  said  nothing. 

"  He's  awfully  jealous.  Oh,  /  know  it.  I 
saw  it  in  his  face.  He  was  as  black  as  a  thun 
der-cloud.  Oh  dear !  And  it's  all  about  me. 
Oh,  Kitty  darling,  what  shall  1  do  ?  There  will 
be  something  dreadful,  I  know.  And  how 
shocking  to  have  it  about  me.  And  then  the 
newspapers.  They'll  all  have  it.  And  the  re 
porters.  Oh  dear !  Kitty,  why  don't  you  say 
something  ?" 

"Why,  Minnie  dearest,  I  really  don't  know 
what  to  say." 

"But,  darling,  you  must  say  something.  And 
then  that  Scone  Dacres.  I'm  more  afraid  of 
him  than  any  bod}-.  Oh,  I  know  he's  going  to 
kilt  some  one.  He  is  so  big.  Oh,  if  you  had 
only  been  on  his  back,  Kitty  darling,  and  had 
him  run  down  a  steep  mountain-side,  you'd  be 
as  awfully  afraid  of  him  as  I  am.  Oh,  how  I 
ivish  Lord  Hawbury  would  drive  them  off,  or 
somebody  do  something  to  save  me. " 

' '  Would  you  rather  that  Lord  Hawbury  would 
stay,  or  would  you  like  him  to  go  too  ?" 

"  Oh  dear !  I  don't  care.  If  he  would  only 
go  quietly  and  nicely,  I  should  like  to  have  him 
go  too,  and  never,  never  see  a  man  again  ex 
cept  dear  papa.  And  I  think  it's  a  shame. 
And  I  don't  see  why  I  should  be  so  persecuted. 
And  I'm  tired  of  staying  here.  And  I  don't 
want  to  stay  here  any  more.  And,  Kitty  dar 
ling,  why  shouldn't  we  all  go  to  Rome  ?" 

'To  Rome?" 

"Yes." 

"Would  you  prefer  Rome?"  asked  Mrs. 
Willoughby,  thoughtfully. 

"  Well,  yes — for  several  reasons.  In  the 
first  place,  I  must  go  somewhere,  and  I'd  rather 
go  there  than  any  where  else.  Then,  you  know, 
that  dear,  delightful  holy-week  will  soon  be 
here,  and  I'm  dying  to  be  in  Rome." 

"I  think  it  would  be  better  for  all  of  us," 
said  Mrs.  Willoughby,  thoughtfully — "for  all 
of  us,  if  we  were  in  Rome." 

"  Of  course  it  would,  Kitty  sweetest,  and  es 
pecially  me.  Now  if  I  am  in  Rome,  I  can  pop 
into  a  convent  whenever  I  choose." 

"A  convent!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Willoughby, 
in  surprise. 

"Oh  yes — it's  going  to  come  to  that.  They're 
all  so  horrid,  you  know.  Besides,  it's  getting 
worse.  I  got  a  letter  yesterday  from  Captain 
Kirby,  written  to  me  in  England.  He  didn't 
know  I  was  here.  He  has  just  arrived  at  Lon 
don,  and  was  leaving  for  our  place  on  what  he 
called  the  wings  of  the  wind.  I  expect  him 
here  at  almost  any  time.  Isn't  it  dreadful, 
Kitty  dearest,  to  have  so  many?  As  fast  as 
one  goes  another  comes,  and  then  they  all  come 
together ;  and  do  you  know,  darling,  it  really  | 
makes  one  feel  quite  dizzy.  I'm  sure  /  don't  j 


know  what  to  do.     And  that's  why  I'm  think 
ing  of  a  convent,  you  know. " 

"  But  you're  not  a  Catholic." 
"  Oh  yes,  I  am,  you  know.  Papa's  an  Anglo- 
Catholic,  and  I  don't  see  the  difference.  Be 
sides,  they're  all  the  time  going  over  to  Rome  ; 
and  why  shouldn't  I?  I'll  be  a  novice — that 
is,  you  know,  I'll  only  go  for  a  time,  and  not 
take  the  vows.  The  more  I  think  of  it,  the 
more  I  see  that  it's  the  only  thing  there  is  for 
me  to  do." 

"Well,  Minnie,  I  really  think  so  too,  and 
not  only  for  you,  but  for  all  of  us.  There's 
Ethel,  too ;  poor  dear  girl,  her  health  is  very 
miserable,  you  know.  I  think  a  change  would 
do  her  good." 

' '  Of  course  it  would  ;  I've  been  talking  to 
her  about  it.  But  she  won't  hear  of  leaving 
Naples.  I  wish  she  wouldn't  be  so  awfully  sad." 

"  Oh  yes ;  it  will  certainly  be  the  best  thing 
for  dear  Ethel,  and  for  you  and  me  and  all 
of  us.  Then  we  must  be  in  Rome  in  holy- 
week.  I  wouldn't  miss  that  for  any  thing." 

"And  then,  too,  you  know,  Kitty  darling, 
there's  another  thing,"  said  Minnie,  very  con 
fidentially,  "  and  it's  very  important.  In  Rome, 
you  know,  all  the  gentlemen  are  clergymen — 
only,  you  know,  the  clergymen  of  the  Roman 
Church  can't  marry ;  and  so,  you  know,  of 
course,  they  can  never  propose,  no  matter  if 
they  were  to  save  one's  life  over  and  over  again. 
And  oh !  what  a  relief  that  would  be  to  find 
one's  self  among  those  dear,  darling,  delightful 
priests,  and  no  chance  of  having  one's  life  saved 
and  having  an  instant  proposal  following!  It 
would  be  so  charming." 

Mrs.  Willoughby  smiled. 

"Well,  Minnie  dearest,"  said  she,  "I  really 
think  that  we  had  better  decide  to  go  to  Rome, 
and  I  don't  see  any  difficulty  in  the  way." 

"The  only  difficulty  that  I  can  see,"  said 
Minnie,  "is  that  I  shouldn't  like  to  hurt  their 
feelings,  you  know." 

"Their  feelings!"  repeated  her  sister,  in  a 
doleful  voice. 

"  Yes ;  but  then,  you  see,  some  one's  feelings 
must  be  hurt  eventually,  so  that  lessens  one's 
responsibility,  you  know ;  doesn't  it,  Kitty  dar 
ling?" 

While  saying  this  Minnie  had  risen  and  gone 
to  the  window,  with  the  intention  of  taking  her 
seat  by  it.  No  sooner  had  she  reached  the 
place,  however,  than  she  started  back,  with  a 
low  exclamation,  and,  standing  on  one  side, 
looked  cautiously  forth. 

"Come  here,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper. 

Mrs.  Willoughby  went  over,  and  Minnie  di 
rected  her  attention  to  some  one  outside.  It 
was  a  gentleman  on  horseback,  who  was  pass 
ing  at  a  slow  pace.  His  head  was  bent  on  his 
breast.  Suddenly,  as  he  passed,  he  raised  his 
head  and  threw  over  the  house  a  quick,  search 
ing  glance.  They  could  see  without  being  seen. 
They  marked  the  profound  sadness  that  was 
over  his  face,  and  saw  the  deep  disappointment 
with  which  his  head  fell. 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


51 


"Scone  Dacres!"  said  Minnie,  as  he  passed 
on.  "  How  awfully  sad  he  is!" 

Mrs.  Willoughby  said  nothing. 

"But,  after  all,  I  don't  believe  it's  me." 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  Because  he  didn't  look  at  me  a  bit  when  he 
passed  to-day.  He  looked  at  you,  though." 

"Nonsense !" 

"  Yes,  and  his  face  had  an  awfully  hungry 
look.  I  know  what  makes  him  sad." 

"What?" 

"He's  in  love  with  you." 

Mrs.  Willoughby  stared  at  Minnie  for  a  mo 
ment.  Then  a  short  laugh  burst  from  her. 

"  Child !"  she  exclaimed,  "you  have  no  idea 
of  any  thing  in  the  world  but  falling  in  love. 
You  will  find  out  some  day  that  there  are  other 
feelings  than  that." 

"But,  Kitty  dear,"  said  Minnie,  "didn't  you 
notice  something  very  peculiar  about  him?" 

"What?" 

"I  noticed  it.  I  had  a  good  look  at  him. 
I  saw  that  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  you  with — oh ! 
such  a  queer  look.  And  he  was  awfully  sad 
too.  He  looked  as  if  he  would  like  to  seize 
you  and  lift  you  on  his  horse  and  carry  you  off, 
just  like  young  Lochir.var." 

"  Me !"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby,  with  a  strange 
intonation. 

"Yes,  you — oh  yes;  really  now." 

"  Oh,  you  little  goose,  you  always  think  of 
people  rushing  after  one  and  carrying  one  off." 

"WTell,  I'm  sure  I've  had  reason  to.  So 
many  people  have  always  been  running  after 
me,  and  snatching  me  up  as  if  I  were  a  parcel, 
and  carrying  me  every  where  in  all  sorts  of 
places.  And  I  think  it's  too  bad,  and  I  really 
wish  they'd  stop  it.  But,  Kitty  dear- 

"  What  ?" 

"  About  this  Scone  Dacres.  Don't  you  really 
think  there's  something  very  peculiarly  sad, 
and  very  delightfully  interesting  and  pathetic, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  in  his  poor  dear  old 
face  ?" 

"I  think  Scone  Dacres  has  suffered  a  great 
deal,"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby,  in  a  thoughtful 
tone.  "But  come  now.  Let  us  go  to  Ethel. 
She's  lonely." 

Soon  after  they  joined  the  other  ladies,  and 
talked  over  the  project  of  going  to  Rome.  Lady 
Dalrymple  offered  no  objection  ;  indeed,  so  far 
as  she  had  any  choice,  she  preferred  it.  She 
was  quite  willing  at  all  times  to  do  whatever 
the  rest  proposed,  and  also  was  not  without 
some  curiosity  as  to  the  proceedings  during 
holy-week.  Ethel  offered  no  objections  either. 
She  had  fallen  into  a  state  of  profound  melan 
choly,  from  which  nothing  now  could  rouse  her, 
and  so  she  listened  listlessly  to  the  discussion 
about  the  subject.  Mrs.  Willoughby  and  Min 
nie  had  the  most  to  say  on  this  point,  and  of 
fered  the  chief  reasons  for  going;  and  thus  it 
was  finally  decided  to  take  their  departure,  and 
to  start  as  soon  as  possible. 

Meanwhile  Girasole  had  his  own  thoughts  and 
experiences.  He  had  already,  some  time  before, 


been  conscious  that  his  attentions  were  not  want 
ed,  but  it  was  only  on  the  part  of  the  other  la 
dies  that  he  noticed  any  repugnance  to  himself. 
On  Minnie's  part  he  had  not  seen  any.  In  spite 
of  their  graciousness  and  their  desire  not  to 
hurt  his  feelings,  they  had  not  been  able  to  avoid 
showing  that,  while  they  felt  grateful  for  his 
heroism  in  the  rescue  of  Minnie,  they  could  not 
think  of  giving  her  to  him.  They  had  manoeu 
vred  well  enough  to  get  rid  of  him,  but  Girasole 
had  also  manoeuvred  on  his  part  to  find  them 
again.  He  had  fallen  off  from  them  at  first 
when  he  saw  that  they  were  determined  on  ef 
fecting  this  ;  but  after  allowing  a  sufficient  time 
to  elapse,  he  had  no  difficulty  in  tracking  them, 
and  finding  them  at  Naples,  as  we  have  seen. 

But  here  he  made  one  or  two  discoveries. 

One  was  that  Minnie  already  had  an  accept 
ed  lover  in  the  person  of  Lord  Hawbury.  The 
lofty  superciliousness  of  the  British  nobleman 
seemed  to  Girasole  to  be  the  natural  result  of 
his  position,  and  it  seemed  the  attitude  of  the 
successful  lover  toward  the  rejected  suitor. 

The  other  discovery  was  that  Minnie  herself 
was  more  pleased  with  the  attentions  of  the  En 
glish  lord  than  with  his  own.  This  was  now 
evident,  and  he  could  not  help  perceiving  that 
his  difficulties  were  far  more  formidable  from 
the  presence  of  such  a  rival. 

But  Girasole  was  not  easily  daunted.  In  the 
first  place,  he  had  unbounded  confidence  in  his 
own  fascinations ;  in  the  second  place,  he  be 
lieved  that  he  had  a  claim  on  Minnie  that  no 
other  could  equal,  in  the  fact  that  he  had  saved 
her  life  ;  in  the  third  place,  apart  from  the  ques 
tion  of  love,  he  believed  her  to  be  a  prize  of  no 
common  value,  whose  English  gold  would  be 
welcome  indeed  to  his  Italian  need  and  greed ; 
while,  finally,  the  bitter  hate  with  which  Lord 
Hawbury  had  inspired  him  gave  an  additional 
zest  to  the  pursuit,  and  made  him  follow  after 
Minnie  with  fresh  ardor. 

Once  or  twice  after  this  he  called  upon  them. 
On  the  first  occasion  only  Lady  Dalrymple  was 
visible.  On  the  second,  none  of  the  ladies  were 
at  home.  He  was  baffled,  but  not  discouraged. 
Returning  from  his  call,  he  met  Minnie  and  Mrs. 
Willoughby.  Hawbury  was  with  them,  riding 
beside  Minnie.  The  ladies  bowed,  and  Gira 
sole,  as  before,  coolly  turned  his  horse  and  rode 
by  the  carriage,  talking  with  Mrs.  Willoughby, 
and  trying  to  throw  at  Minnie  what  he  intend 
ed  to  be  impassioned  glances.  But  Minnie 
would  not  look  at  him.  Of  course  she  was 
frightened  as  usual,  and  grew  excited,  and.  as 
before,  talked  with  unusual  animation  to  Haw 
bury.  Thus  she  overdid  it  altogether,  and  more 
than  ever  confirmed  Girasole  in  the  opinion  that 
she  and  Hawbury  were  affianced. 

Two  days  after  this  Girasole  called  again. 

A  bitter  disappointment  was  in  store  for 
him. 

They  were  not  there — they  had  gone. 

Eagerly  he  inquired  where. 

"To  Rome,"  was  the  reply. 

"To  Rome!"  he  muttered,  between  his  set 


52 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"'TO  ROME!'  HE  MUTTERED,  BETWEEN  HIS  SET  TEETII." 

teeth ;   and  mounting  his  horse  hurriedly,  he 
rode  away. 

He  was  not  one  to  be  daunted.  He  had  set 
a  certain  task  before  himself,  and  could  not  easi 
ly  be  turned  aside.  He  thought  bitterly  of  the 
ingratitude  with  which  he  had  been  treated. 
He  brought  before  his  mind  the  "  stony  British 
stare,"  the  supercilious  smile,  and  the  imperti 
nent  and  insulting  expression  of  Hawbury's  face 
as  he  sat  on  his  saddle,  with  his  chin  up,  strok 
ing  his  whiskers,  and  surveyed  him  for  the  first 
time.  All  these  things  combined  to  stimulate 
the  hate  as  well  as  the  love  of  Girasole.  He 
felt  that  he  himself  was  not  one  who  could  be 
lightly  dismissed,  and  determined  that  they 
should  learn  this. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

VAIN   EEMONSTRANCES. 

HAWBURY  had  immolated  himself  for  as 
much  as  half  a  dozen  times  to  gratify  Dacres. 
He  had  sacrificed  himself  over  and  over  upon 
the  altar  of  friendship,  and  had  allowed  him 
self  to  be  bored  to  death  because  Dacres  so 
wished  it.  The  whole  number  of  his  calls  was 
in  reality  only  about  five  or  six ;  but  that  num 
ber,  to  one  of  his  taste  and  temperament,  seemed 
positively  enormous,  and  represented  an  im 
mense  amount  of  human  suffering. 

One  day,  upon  reaching  his  quarters,  after 
one  of  these  calls,  he  found  Dacres  there,  mak 
ing  himself,  as  usual,  very  much  at  home. 

"Well,    my    dear    fellow,"   said    Hawbury, 


cheerfully,  "how  waves  the  flag  now?  Are 
you  hauling  it  down,  or  are  you  standing  to 
your  guns  ?  Toss  over  the  cigars,  and  give  an 
account  of  yourself. " 

"Do  you  know  any  thing  about  law,  Haw- 
bury  ?"  was  Dacres's  answer. 

"Law?" 

"Yes." 

"No,  not  much.  But  what  in  the  world 
makes  you  ask  such  a  question  as  that  ?  Law ! 
No — not  I." 

"Well,  there's  a  point  that  I  should  like  to 
ask  somebody  about." 

"Why  not  get  a  lawyer?" 

"An  Italian  lawyer's  no  use." 

"  Well,  English  lawyers  are  to  be  found.  I 
dare  say  there  are  twenty  within  five  minutes' 
distance  of  this  place." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  bother.  I  only  want 
ed  to  ask  some  one's  opinion  in  a  general  way." 

"Well,  what's  the  point?" 

"Why  this,"  said  Dacres,  after  a  little  hesi 
tation.  "You've  heard  of  outlawry  ?" 

"  Should  think  I  had — Robin  Hood  and  his 
merry  men,  Lincoln  green,  Sherwood  Forest, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know.  But 
what  the  mischief  sets  you  thinking  about  Robin 
Hood  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  rot.  I  mean  real 
outlawry — when  a  fellow's  in  debt,  you  know." 

"Well?" 

"Well;  if  he  goes  out  of  the  country,  and 
stays  away  a  certain  number  of  years,  the  debt's 
outlawed,  you  know." 

"  The  deuce  it  is !  Is  it,  though  ?  I've  been 
in  debt,  but  I  always  managed  to  pull  through 
without  getting  so  far.  But  that's  convenient 
for  some  fellows  too." 

"  I'm  a  little  muddy  about  it,  but  I've  heard 
something  to  this  effect.  I  think  the  time  is 
seven  years.  If  the  debt  is  not  acknowledged 
during  the  interval,  it's  outlawed.  And  now, 
'pon  my  life,  my  dear  fellow,  I  really  don't  know 
but  that  I've  jumbled  up  some  fragments  of 
English  law  with  American.  I  felt  that  I  was 
muddy,  and  so  I  thought  I'd  ask  you." 

"Don't  know  any  more  about  it  than  about 
the  antediluvians." 

"It's  an  important  point,  and  I  should  like 
to  have  it  looked  up." 

"Well,  get  a  lawyer  here;  half  London  is 
on  the  Continent.  But  still,  my  dear  fellow,  I 
don't  see  what  you're  driving  at.  You're  not 
in  debt?" 

"  No — this  isn't  debt;  but  it  struck  me  that 
this  might  possibly  apply  to  other  kinds  of  con 
tracts." 

"Oh!" 

"Yes." 

"How — such  as  what,  for  instance?" 

"Well,  you  see,  I  thought,  you  know,  that 
all  contracts  might  be  included  under  it ;  and  so 
I  thought  that  if  seven  years  or  so  annulled 
all  contracts,  it  might  have  some  effect,  you 
know,  upon — the — the — the  marriage  contract, 
vou  know." 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


53 


At  this  Hawbury  started  up,  stared  at  Da- 
cres,  gave  a  loud  whistle,  and  then  exclaimed, 

"By  Jove!" 

"I  may  be  mistaken, "said  Dacres,  modestly. 

"  Mistaken  ?  Why,  old  chap,  you're  mad. 
Marriage  ?  Good  Lord  !  don't  you  know  no 
thing  can  abrogate  that?  Of  course,  in  case 
of  crime,  one  can  get  a  divorce ;  but  there  is  no 
other  way.  Seven  years  ?  By  Jove !  A  good 
idea  that.  Why,  man,  if  that  were  so,  the  king 
dom  would  be  depopulated.  Husbands  run 
ning  off  from  wives,  and  wives  from  husbands, 
to  pass  the  required  seven  years  abroad.  By 
Jove !  You  see,  too,  there's  another  thing,  my 
boy.  Marriage  is  a  sacrament,  and  you've  not 
only  got  to  untie  the  civil  knot,  but  the  clerical 
one,  my  boy.  No,  no ;  there's  no  help  for  it. 
You  gave  your  word,  old  chap,  'till  death  do 
us  part,'  and  you're  in  for  it." 

At  this  Dacres  said  nothing ;  it  appeared  to 
dispel  his  project  from  his  mind.  He  relapsed 
into  a  sullen  sort  of  gloom,  and  remained  so 
for  some  time.  At  last  he  spoke  : 

"  Hawbury!" 

"Well?" 

"  Have  you  found  out  who  that  fellow  is  ?" 

"What  fellow?" 

"WThy  that  yellow  Italian  that  goes  prowl 
ing  around  after  my  wife." 

"Oh  yes;  I  heard  something  or  other  to 
day.  " 

"What  was  it?" 

"Well,  it  seems  that  he  saved  her  life,  or 
something  of  that  sort." 

"  Saved  her  life !"  Dacres  started.  "How  ? 
where?  Cool,  too!" 

"Oh,  on  the  Alps  somewhere." 

"  On  the  Alps  !  saved  her  life  !  Come  now, 
I  like  that,"  said  Dacres,  with  bitter  intona 
tion.  Aha!  don't  I  know  her?  I  warrant 
you  she  contrived  all  that.  Oh,  she's  deep! 
But  how  did  it  happen  ?  Did  you  hear  ?" 

"  Well,  I  didn't  hear  any  thing  very  definite. 
It  was  something  about  a  precipice.  It  was 
Lady  Dairy m  pie  that  told  me.  It  seems  she 
was  knocked  over  a  precipice  by  an  avalanche. " 

"  Was  what  ?  Knocked  where  ?  Over  a  prec 
ipice  ?  By  a  what — an  avalanche  ?  Good  Lord ! 
I  don't  believe  it.  I  swear  I  don't.  She  in 
vented  it  all.  It's  some  of  her  infernal  hum 
bug.  She  slid  off  over  the  snow,  so  as  to  get 
him  to  go  after  her.  Oh,  don't  I  know  her 
and  her  ways !" 

"Well,  come  now,  old  man,  you  shouldn't 
be  too  hard  on  her.  You  never  said  that  flirt 
ation  was  one  of  her  faults." 

"  Well,  neither  it  was ;  but,  as  she  is  a  demon, 
she's  capable  of  any  thing ;  and  now  she  has  so 
bered  down,  and  all  her  vices  have  taken  this 
turn.  Oh  yes.  I  know  her.  No  more  storms 
now — no  rage,  no  fury — all  quiet  and  sly.  Flirt 
ation  !  Ha,  ha !  That's  the  word.  And  my 
wife!  And  going  about  the  country,  tumbling 
over  precipices,  with  devilish  handsome  Italians 
going  down  to  save  her  life !  Ha,  ha,  ha !  I 
like  that!" 


"See  here,  old  boy,  I  swear  you're  too  sus 
picious.  Come  now.  You're  going  too  far. 
If  she  chooses,  she  may  trump  up  the  same 
charge  against  you  and  the  child-angel  at  Ve 
suvius.  Come  now,  old  boy,  be  just.  You  can 
afford  to.  Your  wife  may  be  a  fiend  in  hu 
man  form  ;  and  if  you  insist  upon  it,  I've  nothing 
to  say.  But  this  last  notion  of  yours  is  nothing 
but  the  most  wretched  absurdity.  It's  worse. 
It's  lunacy." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Dacres,  in  a  milder  tone : 
"  perhaps  she  didn't  contrive  it.  But  then,  you 
know,"  he  added,  "it's  just  as  good  for  her. 
She  gets  the  Italian.  Ha,  ha,  ha!" 

His  laugh  was  forced,  feverish,  and  unnat 
ural.  Hawbury  didn't  like  it,  and  tried  to 
change  the  subject. 

"Oh,  by-the-way,"  said  he,  "you  needn't 
have  any  further  trouble  about  any  of  them. 
You  don't  seem  inclined  to  take  any  definite 
action,  so  the  action  will  be  taken  for  you." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  I  mean  that  they  are  all  going  to  leave  Na 
ples." 

"  To  leave  Naples !" 

Dacres  uttered  this  in  a  voice  of  grief  and 
surprise  which  astonished  Hawbury  and  touch 
ed  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "You  know  they've  been 
here  long  enough.  They  want  to  see  Rome. 
Holy-week,  you  know.  No  end  of  excitement. 
Illumination  of  St.  Peter's,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing,  you  know. " 

Dacres  relapsed  into  sombre  silence.  For 
more  than  half  an  hour  he  did  not  say  a  word. 
Hawbury  respected  his  mood,  and  watched  him 
with  something  approaching  to  anxiety. 

"Hawbury,"  said  he  at  last. 

"Well,  old  man?" 

"I'm  going  to  Rome." 

"You — to  Rome  !" 

"Yes,  me,  to  Rome." 

"  Oh,  nonsense !  See  here,  old  boy.  You'd 
really  better  not,  you  know.  Break  it  up.  You 
can't  do  any  thing." 

"  I'm  going  to  Rome,"  repeated  Dacres,  stol 
idly.  "I've  made  up  my  mind." 

"But,  really, "remonstrated  Hawbury.  "See 
here  now,  my  dear  fellow :  look  here,  you  know. 
By  Jove!  you  don't  consider,  really." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  do.  I  know  every  thing ;  I  con 
sider  every  thing." 

"But  what  good  will  it  do?" 

"It  won't  do  any  good;  but  it  may  prevent 
some  evil." 

"Nothing  but  evil  can  ever  come  of  it." 

"  Oh,  no  evil  need  necessarily  come  of  it. " 

"  By  Jove !"  exclaimed  Hawbury,  who  began 
to  be  excited.  "  Really,  my  dear  fellow,  you 
don't  think.  You  see  you  can't  gain  any  thing. 
She's  surrounded  by  friends,  you  know.  She 
never  can  be  yours,  you  know.  There's  a  great 
gulf  between  you,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  you 
know." 

"Yes,"  repeated  Dacres,  catching  his  last 
words — "yes,  a  great  gulf,  as  deep  as  the  bot- 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


tomless  abyss,  never  to  oe  traversed,  where  she 
stands  on  one  side,  and  I  on  the  other,  and  be 
tween  us  hate,  deep  and  pitiless  hate,  undying, 
eternal!" 

"Then,  by  Jove !  my  dear  fellow,  what's  the 
use  of  trying  to  fight  against  it  ?  You  can't  do 
any  thing.  If  this  were  Indiana,  now,  or  even 
New  York,  I  wouldn't  say  any  thing,  you  know ; 
but  you  know  an  Indiana  divorce  wouldn't  do 
you  any  good.  Her  friends  wouldn't  take  you 
on  those  terms — and  she  wouldn't.  Not  she, 
by  Jove !" 

"I  must  go.  I  must  follow  her,"  continued 
Dacres.  "  The  sight  of  her  has  roused  a  devil 
within  me  that  I  thought  was  laid.  I'm  a 
changed  man,  Hawbury." 

"  I  should  think  so,  by  Jove !" 
"A  changed  man,"  continued  Dacres.  "Oh, 
Heavens,  what  power  there  is  in  a  face !  What 
terrific  influence  it  has  over  a  man  !  Here  am 
I ;  a  few  days  ago  I  was  a  free  man  ;  now  I  am 
a  slave.  But,  by  Heaven !  I'll  follow  her  to 
the  world's  end.  She  shall  not  shake  me  off. 
She  thinks  to  be  happy  without  me.  She  shall 
not.  I  will  silently  follow  as  an  avenging  fate. 
I  can  not  have  her,  and  no  one  else  shall.  The 
same  cursed  fate  that  severs  her  from  me  shall 
keep  her  away  from  others.  If  I  am  lonely 
and  an  exile,  she  shall  not  be  as  happy  as  she 
expects.  I  shall  not  be  the  onlv  one  to  suf 
fer." 

"  See  here,  by  Jove ! "  cried  Hawbury.  "  Real 
ly.  You're  going  too  far,  my  dear  boy,  you  know. 
You  are,  really.  Come  now.  This  is  just  like 
a  Surrey  theatre,  you  know.  You're  really  rav 
ing.  Why,  my  poor  old  boy,  you  must  give  her 
up.  You  can't  do  any  thing.  You  daren't  call 
on  her.  You're  tied  hand  and  foot.  You  may 
worship  her  here,  and  rave  about  your  child- 
angel  till  you're  black  in  the  face,  but  you  nev 
er  can  see  her ;  and  as  to  all  this  about  stopping 
her  from  marrying  any  other  person,  that's  all 
rot  and  bosh.  What  do  you  suppose  any  other 
man  would  care  for  your  nonsensical  ravings  ? 
Lonely  and  an  exile !  Why,  man,  she'll  be 
married  and  done  for  in  three  months." 

"You  don't  understand  me,"  said  Dacres, 
dryly. 

"I'm  glad  that  I  don't;  but  it's  no  wonder, 
old  man,  for  really  you  were  quite  incoher 
ent." 

"And  so  they're  going  to  Rome,"  said  Da 
cres.  "Well,  they'll  find  that  I'm  not  to  be 
shaken  off  so  easily." 

"  Come  now,  old  man,  you  must  give  up 
that." 

"And  I  suppose,"  continued  Dacres,  with  a 
sneer,  "our  handsome,  dark-eyed  little  Italian 
cavalier  is  going  with  us.     Ha,  ha,  ha !     He's 
at  the  house  all  the  time,  no  doubt." 
"Well,  yes;  he  was  there  once." 
"Ah!  of  course — quite  devoted." 
"  Oh  yes  ;  but  don't  be  afraid.     It  was  no 
to  the  child-angel.     She  appears  to  avoid  him 
That's  really  quite  evident.     It's  an  apparen 
aversion  on  her  part." 


Dacres  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Oh,"  said  he;  "and  so  I  suppose  it's  not 

er  that  he  goes  after.     I  did  not  suppose  that 

t  was.     Oh  no.     There's  another  one — more 

iquant,  you  know — ha,  ha! — a  devoted  lover 

— saved  her  life — quite  devoted — and  she  sits 

ind  accepts  his  attentions.    Yet  she's  seen  me, 

ind  knows  that  I'm  watching  her.     Don't  she 

now  me*     Does  she  want  any  further  proof 

of  what  I  am  ready  to   do?      The  ruins  of 

Dacres  Grange  should  serve  her  for  life.     She 

empts  fate  when  she  carries  on  her  gallantries 

and  her  Italian  cicisbeism  under  the  eyes  of 

Scone  Dacres.     It  '11  end  bad.     By  Heaven,  it 

will!" 

Scone  Dacres  breathed  hard,  and,  raising  his 
lead,  turned  upon  Hawbury  a  pair  of  eyes 
whose  glow  seemed  of  fire. 

"  Bad !"  he  repeated,  crashing  his  fist  on  the 
table.  "Bad,  by  Heaven!" 

Hawbury  looked  at  him  earnestly. 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  he,  "you're  getting  too 
excited.  Be  cool.  Really,  I  don't  believe  you 
know  what  you're  saying.  I  don't  understand 
what  you  mean.  Haven't  the  faintest  idea  what 
you're  driving  at.  You're  making  ferocious 
threats  against  some  people,  but,  for  my  life, 
I  don't  know  who  they  are.  Hadn't  you  bet 
ter  try  to  speak  so  that  a  fellow  can  under 
stand  the  general  drift,  at  least,  of  what  you 
say  ?" 

"Well,  then,  you  understand  this  much — 
I'm  going  to  Rome." 

"I'm  sorry  for  it,  old  boy." 

"And  see  here,  Hawbury,  I  want  you  to 
come  with  me." 

"Me?     What  for?" 

"  Well,  I  want  you.  I  may  have  need  of 
you." 

As  Dacres  said  this  his  face  assumed  so  dark 
and  gloomy  an  expression  that  Hawbury  began 
to  think  that  there  was  something  serious  in  all 
this  menace. 

"Ton  my  life,"  said  he,  "my  dear  boy,  I 
really  don't  think  you're  in  a  fit  state  to  be  al 
lowed  to  go  by  yourself.  You  look  quite  des 
perate.  I  wish  I  could  make  you  give  up  this 
infernal  Roman  notion." 

"  I'm  going  to  Rome !"  repeated  Dacres,  res 
olutely. 

Hawbury  looked  at  him. 

"  You'll  come,  Hawbury,  won't  you  ?" 

"  Why,  confound  it  all,  of  course.  I'm  afraid 
you'll  do  something  rash,  old  man,  and  you'll 
have  to  have  me  to  stand  between  you  and 
harm." 

"  Oh,  don't  be  concerned  about  me,"  said 
Dacres.  "  I  only  want  to  watch  her,  and  sec 
what  her  little  game  is.  I  want  to  look  at  her 
in  the  midst  of  her  happiness.  She's  most  in 
fernally  beautiful,  too ;  hasn't  added  a  year  or 
a  day  to  her  face ;  more  lovely  than  ever ;  more 
beautiful  than  she  was  even  when  I  first  saw 
her.  And  there's  a  softness  about  her  that  she 
never  had  before.  Where  the  deuce  did  she  get 
that?  Good  idea  of  hers,  too,  to  cultivate  the 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


55 


soft  style.  And  there's  sadness  in  her  face,  too. 
Can  it  be  real  ?  By  Heavens !  if  I  thought  it 
could  be  real  I'd — but  pooh !  what  insanity ! 
It's  her  art.  There  never  was  such  cunning. 
•  She  cultivates  the  soft,  sad  style  so  as  to  at 
tract  lovers — lovers — who  adore  her — who  save 
her  life — who  become  her  obedient  slaves !  Oh 
yes  ;  and  I — what  am  I  ?  Why  they  get  to 
gether  and  laugh  at  me;  they  giggle;  they 
snicker — " 

"Confound  it  all,  man,  what  are  you  going 
on  at  that  rate  for?"  interrupted  Hawbury. 
"Are  you  taking  leave  of  your  senses  altogeth 
er?  By  Jove,  old  man,  you'd  better  give  up 
this  Roman  journey." 

"No,  I'll  keep  at  it." 

"  What  for  ?  Confound  it !  I  don't  see  your 
object." 

"My  object?  Why,  I  mean  to  follow  her. 
I  can't  give  her  up.  I  won't  give  her  up.  I'll 
follow  her.  She  shall  see  me  every  where.  I'll 
follow  her.  She  sha'n't  go  any  where  without 
seeing  me  on  her  track.  She  shall  see  that  she 
is  mine.  She  shall  know  that  she's  got  a  mas 
ter.  She  shall  find  herself  cut  off  from  that  but 
terfly  life  which  she  hopes  to  enter.  I'll  be  her 
fate,  and  she  shall  know  it." 

"By  Jove!"  cried  Hawbury.  "What  the 
deuce  is  all  this  about  ?  Are  you  mad,  or  what  ? 
Look  here,  old  boy,  you're  utterly  beyond  me, 
you  know.  What  the  mischief  do  you  mean  ? 
Whom  are  you  going  to  follow  ?  Whose  fate  are 
you  going  to  be  ?  Whose  track  are  you  talking 
about?" 

"  Who  ?"  cried  Dacres.     "Why,  my  wife !" 

As  he  said  this  he  struck  his  fist  violently  on 
the  table. 

"The  deuce!"  exclaimed  Hawbury,  staring 
at  him ;  after  which  he  added,  thoughtfully, 
"  by  Jove !" 

Not  much  more  was  said.  Dacres  sat  in  si 
lence  for  a  long  time,  breathing  hard,  and  puff 
ing  violently  at  his  cigar.  Hawbury  said  no 
thing  to  interrupt  his  meditation.  After  an 
hour  or  so  Dacres  tramped  off  in  silence,  and 
Hawbury  was  left  to  meditate  over  the  situa 
tion. 

And  this  was  the  result  of  his  meditations. 

He  saw  that  Dacres  was  greatly  excited,  and 
had  changed  completely  from  his  old  self.  His 
stateof  mind  seemed  actually  dangerous.  There 
was  an  evil  gleam  in  his  eyes  that  looked  like 
madness.  What  made  it  more  perplexing  still 
was  the  new  revulsion  of  feeling  that  now  was 
manifest.  It  was  not  so  much  love  for  the  child- 
angel  as  bitter  and  venomous  hate  for  his  wife. 
The  gentler  feeling  had  given  place  to  the  stern 
er  one.  It  might  have  been  possible  to  attempt 
an  argument  against  the  indulgence  of  the  for 
mer;  but  what  could  words  avail  against  re 
venge  ?  And  now  there  was  rising  in  the  soul 
of  Dacres  an  evident  thirst  for  vengeance,  the  re 
sult  of  those  injuries  which  had  been  carried  in 
his  heart  and  brooded  over  for  years.  The  sight 
of  his  wife  had  evidently  kindled  all  this.  If 
she  had  not  come  across  his  path  he  might  have 


forgotten  all ;  but  she  had  come,  and  all  was 
revived.  She  had  come,  too,  in  a  shape  which 
was  adapted  in  the  highest  degree  to  stimulate 
all  the  passion  of  Dacres's  soul — young,  beau 
tiful,  fascinating,  elegant,  refined,  rich,  honored, 
courted,  and  happy.  Upon  such  a  being  as  this 
the  homeless  wanderer,  the  outcast,  looked,  and 
his  soul  seemed  turned  to  fire  as  he  gazed. 
Was  it  any  wonder  ? 

All  this  Hawbury  thought,  and  with  full  sym 
pathy  for  his  injured  friend.  He  saw  also  that 
Dacres  could  not  be  trusted  by  himself.  Some 
catastrophe  would  be  sure  to  occur.  He  de 
termined,  therefore,  to  accompany  his  friend, 
so  as  to  do  what  he  could  to  avert  the  calamity 
which  he  dreaded. 

And  this  was  the  reason  why  he  went  with 
Dacres  to  Rome. 

As  for  Dacres,  he  seemed  to  be  animated  by 
but  one  motive,  which  he  expressed  over  and 
over  again : 

"  She  stood  between  me  and  my  child-an 
gel,  and  so  will  I  stand  between  her  and  her 
Italian!" 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE    ZOUAVE   OFFICER. 

WHATEVER  trouble  Ethel  had  experienced  at 
Naples  from  her  conviction  that  Hawbury  was 
false  was  increased  and,  if  possible,  intensified 
by  the  discovery  that  he  had  followed  them  to 
Rome.  His  true  motives  for  this  could  not  pos 
sibly  be  known  to  her,  so  she,  of  course,  conclud 
ed  that  it  was  his  infatuation  for  Minnie,  and 
his  determination  to  win  her  for  himself.  She 
felt  confident  that  he  knew  that  she  belonged  to 
the  party,  but  was  so  utterly  indifferent  to  her 
that  he  completely  ignored  her,  and  had  not 
sufficient  interest  in  her  to  ask  the  commonest 
question  about  her.  All  this,  of  course,  only  con 
firmed  her  previous  opinion,  and  it  also  deepened 
her  melancholy.  One  additional  effect  it  also 
had,  and  that  was  to  deprive  her  of  any  pleas 
ure  that  might  be  had  from  drives  about  Rome. 
She  felt  a  morbid  dread  of  meeting  him  some 
where  ;  she  did  not  yet  feel  able  to  encounter 
him  ;  she  could  not  trust  herself;  she  felt  sure 
that  if  she  saw  him  she  would  lose  all  self- 
control,  and  make  an  exhibition  of  humiliating 
weakness.  The  dread  of  this  was  sufficient  to 
detain  her  at  home ;  and  so  she  remained  in 
doors,  a  prisoner,  refusing  her  liberty,  brooding 
over  her  troubles,  and  striving  to  acquire  that 
indifference  to  him  which  she  believed  he  had 
toward  her.  Now  going  about  was  the  very 
thing  which  would  have  alleviated  her  woes,  but 
this  was  the  very  thing  that  she  was  unwilling  to 
do ;  nor  could  any  persuasion  shake  her  resolve. 

One  day  Mrs.  Willoughby  and  Minnie  were 
out  driving,  and  in  passing  through  a  street  they 
encountered  a  crowd  in  front  of  one  of  the 
churches.  Another  crowd  was  inside,  and,  as 
something  was  going  on,  they  stopped  the  car 
riage  and  sat  looking.  The  Swiss  Guards  were 


5G 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


there  in  their  picturesque  costume,  and  the 
cardinals  in  their  scarlet  robes  and  scarlet 
coaches,  and  military  officers  of  high  rank,  and 
carriages  of  the  Roman  aristocracy  filled  with 
beautiful  ladies.  Something  of  importance  was 
going  on,  the  nature  of  which  they  did  not  know. 
A  little  knot  of  Englishmen  stood  near;  and  from 
their  remarks  the  ladies  gathered  that  this  was 
the  Church  of  the  Jesuits,  and  that  the  Pope  in 
person  was  going  to  perform  high-mass,  and 
afterward  hold  a  reception. 

Soon  there  arose  a  murmur  and  a  bustle 
among  the  crowd,  which  was  succeeded  by  a 
deep  stillness.  The  Swiss  Guards  drove  the 
throng  to  either  side,  and  a  passage-way  was 
thus  formed  through  the  people  to  the  church. 
A  carriage  drove  up  in  great  state.  In  this  was 
seated  an  elderly  gentleman  in  rich  pontifical 
robes.  He  had  a  mild  and  gentle  face,  upon 
which  was  a  sweet  and  winning  smile.  No  face 
is  more  attractive  than  that  of  Pio  Nono. 

"  Oh,  look  !"  cried  Minnie  ;  "  that  must  be 
the  Pope.  Oh,  what  a  darling !" 

Mrs.  Willoughby,  however,  was  looking  else 
where. 

"Minnie,"  said  she. 

"What,  Kitty  dear?" 

"Are  you  acquainted  with  any  Zouave  of 
ficer  ?" 

"  Zouave  officer  !  Why,  no  ;  what  put  such 
a  thing  as  that  into  your  head,  you  old  silly  ?" 

"  Because  there's  a  Zouave  officer  over  there 
in  the  crowd  who  has  been  staring  fixedly  at 
us  ever  since  we  came  up,  and  trying  to  make 
signals,  and  it's  my  opinion  he's  signaling  to 
you.  Look  at  him  ;  he's  over  there  on  the  top 
of  the  steps." 

"  I  won't  look, "  said  Minnie,  pettishly.  "  How 
do  I  know  who  he  is  ?  I  declare  I'm  afraid  to 
look  at  any  body.  He'll  be  coming  and  saving 
my  life." 

"I'm  snre  this  man  is  an  old  acquaintance." 

"  Nonsense  !  how  can  he  be  ?" 

"It  may  be  Captain  Kirby." 

"  How  silly  !  Why,  Captain  Kirby  is  in  the 
Rifles." 

"Perhaps  he  is  dressed  this  way  just  for 
amusement.  Look  at  him." 

"Now,  Kitty,  I  think  you're  unkind.  Yon 
know  I  don't  want  to  look  at  him  ;  I  don't  want 
to  see  him.  I  don't  care  who  he  is — the  great, 
big,  ugly,  old  horrid !  And  if  you  say  any  thing 
more,  I'll  go  home." 

Mrs.  Willoughby  was  about  to  say  something, 
but  her  attention  and  Minnie's,  and  that  of  every 
one  else,  was  suddenly  diverted  to  another  quar 
ter. 

Among  the  crowd  they  had  noticed  a  tall  man, 
very  thin,  with  a  lean,  cadaverous  face,  and  long, 
lanky,  rusty  black  hair.  He  wore  a  white  neck 
tie,  and  a  suit  of  rusty  black  clothes.  He  also 
held  a  large  umbrella  in  his  hand,  which  he  kept 
carefully  up  out  of  the  way  of  the  crowd.  This 
figure  was  a  conspicuous  one,  even  in  that  crowd, 
and  the  ladies  had  noticed  it  at  the  very  first. 

As  the  Pope  drove  up  they  saw  this  long, 


slim,  thin,  cadaverous  man,  in  his  suit  of  rusty 
black,  edging  his  way  through  the  crowd,  so  as 
to  get  nearer,  until  at  length  he  stood  immedi 
ately  behind  the  line  of  Swiss  Guards,  who  were 
keeping  the  crowd  back,  and  forming  a  passage 
way  for  the  Pope.  Meanwhile  his  Holiness  was 
advancing  through  the  crowd.  He  reached  out 
his  hand,  and  smiled  and  bowed  and  murmur 
ed  a  blessing  over  them.  At  last  his  carriage 
stopped.  The  door  was  opened,  and  several  at- 
tendants  prepared  to  receive  the  Pope  and  as 
sist  him  out. 

At  that  instant  the  tall,  slim  stranger  pushed 
forward  his  sallow  head,  with  its  long,  lanky, 
and  rusty  black  hair,  between  two  Swiss  Guards, 
and  tried  to  squeeze  between  them.  The  Swiss 
at  first  stood  motionless,  and  the  stranger  had 
actually  succeeded  in  getting  about  half-wuy 
through.  He  was  immediately  in  front  of  his 
Holiness,  and  staring  at  him  with  all  his  might. 
His  Holiness  saw  this  very  peculiar  face,  and 
was  so  surprised  that  he  uttered  an  involuntary 
exclamation,  and  stopped  short  in  his  descent. 

The  stranger  stopped  short  too,  and  quite  in 
voluntarily  also.  For  the  Swiss  Guards,  irritated 
by  his  pertinacity,  and  seeing  the  Pope's  ges 
ture,  turned  suddenly,  and  two  of  them  grasped 
the  stranger  by  his  coat  collar. 

It  was,  of  course,  an  extremely  undignified 
attitude  for  the  Swiss  Guards,  whose  position  is 
simply  an  ornamental  one.  Nothing  but  the 
most  unparalleled  outrage  to  their  dignity  could 
have  moved  them  to  this.  So  unusual  a  dis 
play  of  energy,  however,  did  not  last  long.  A 
few  persons  in  citizens'  clothes  darted  forward 
from  among  the  crowd,  and  secured  the  stranger; 
while  the  Swiss,  seeing  who  they  were,  resumed 
their  erect,  rigid,  and  ornamental  attitude.  The 
Pope  found  no  longer  any  obstacle,  and  resumed 
his  descent.  For  a  moment  the  stranger  had  cre 
ated  a  wide-spread  consternation  in  the  breasts 
of  all  the  different  and  very  numerous  classes 
of  men  who  composed  that  crowd.  The  arrest 
was  the  signal  for  a  murmur  of  voices,  among 
which  the  ladies  heard  those  of  the  knot  of  En 
glishmen  who  stood  near. 

"It's  some  Garibaldian,"  said  they. 

And  this  was  the  general  sentiment. 

Several  hours  after  this  they  were  at  home, 
and  a  caller  was  announced.  It  was  the  Baron 
Atramonte. 

"  Atramonte ! "  said  Lady  Dalrymple.  ' '  Who 
is  that  ?  We're  not  at  home,  of  course.  Atra 
monte  !  Some  of  these  Italian  nobles.  Real 
ly,  I  think  we  have  seen  enough  of  them.  Who 
is  he,  Kitty  ?" 

"I'm  sure  I  haven't  the  faintest  idea.  I 
never  heard  of  him  in  my  life." 

"  We're  not  at  home,  of  course.  It's  a  sin 
gular  way,  and  surely  can  not  be  Roman  fash 
ion.  It's  not  civilized  fashion.  But  the  Con 
tinental  nobility  are  so  odd." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  sen-ant,  who  had  been 
dispatched  to  say,  "Not  at  home,"  returned  with 
the  statement  that  the  Baron  wished  particular- 
'  ly  to  see  Miss  Fay  on  urgent  business. 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


57 


"TWO  OF   THEM   GKABPED  THE   STRANGER  BY   HIS   COAT  COLLAR. 


At  this  extraordinary  message  Lady  Dal- 
rymple  and  Mrs.  Willoughby  looked  first  at  one 
another,  and  then  at  Minnie,  in  amazement. 

"  I'm  sure  /don't  know  any  thing  about  him," 
said  Minnie.  "  They  always  tease  me  so.  Oh, 
do  go  and  see  who  he  is,  and  send  him  away — 
please!  Oh,  do,  please,  Dowdy  dear!" 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  had  better  see  the  per 
son,"  said  Lady  Dalrymple,  good-naturedly. 
"There  must  be  some  mistake.  How  is  he 
dressed?"  she  asked  the  servant.  "Is  he  a 
military  gentleman  ?  Most  of  them  seem  to 
belong  to  the  army." 

"Yes,  my  lady.     Zouave  dress,  my  lady." 

At  this  Mrs.  Willoughby  and  Minnie  looked 
at  one  another.  Lady  Dalrymple  went  away ; 
and  as  no  other  was  present,  Ethel  being,  as 
usual,  in  her  room,  Mrs.  Willoughby  sighed  and 
said, 

"I  thought  that  man  must  know  you." 

"Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  him,"  said 
Minnie.  "I  never  knew  a  Zouave  officer  in 
my  life." 

"  It  may  be  Captain  Kirby,  under  an  assumed 
name  and  a  disguise." 

"Oh  no,  it  isn't.  I  don't  believe  he  would 
be  such  a  perfect — monster.  Oh  dear!  It's 
somebody,  though.  It  must  be.  And  he  wants 
me.  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?" 

"Nonsense !  You  need  not  go.  Aunty  will 
see  him,  and  send  him  off." 

"Oh,  I  do  so  hope  he'll  go;  but  I'm  afraid 
he  won't. " 

After  a  short  time  Lady  Dalrymple  returned. 


"Really,"  said  she,  "this  is  a  most  extraor 
dinary  person.  He  speaks  English,  but  not  at  all 
like  an  Englishman.  I  don't  know  who  he  is. 
He  calls  himself  a  Baron,  but  he  doesn't  seem 
to  be  a  foreigner.  I'm  puzzled." 

"I  hope  he's  gone,"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby. 

"No — that's  the  worst  of  it.  He  won't  go. 
He  says  he  must  see  Minnie,  and  he  won't  tell 
his  errand.  I  told  him  that  he  could  not  see 
you,  but  that  I  would  tell  you  what  he  wanted, 
and  that  you  were  not  at  home.  And  what  do 
you  think  he  said  ?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  Dowdy  dear." 

"  Why,  he  said  he  had  nothing  to  do,  and 
would  wait  till  you  came  back.  And  he  took 
his  seat  in  a  way  that  showed  that  he  meant  to 
wait.  Really,  I'm  quite  at  a  loss  what  to  do. 
You'll  have  to  see  him,  Kitty  dear." 

"What  a  strange  person!"  said  Mrs.  Wil 
loughby.  "  It's  so  rude.  And  don't  you  know 
what  he  is?  How  do  you  know  he  isn't  an 
Italian  ?" 

"Oh,  his  English,  you  know.  He  speaks  it 
perfectly,  but  not  like  an  Englishman,  you  know, 
nor  like  a  Scotchman  either,  or  an  Irishman. 
I  wonder  whether  he  may  not  be  an  American  ?" 

At  this  Minnie  started. 

"Oh  dear!"  she  said. 

"What's  the  matter,  darling?" 

"An  American!  Oh  dear!  what  will  be 
come  of  me ! " 

"Why,"  said  Lady  Dalrymple,  "do  you 
know  him,  then,  after  all?" 

"Oh,  I'm  so  afraid  that  I  know  him !" 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"Who  is  it,  dear?" 

"  Oh,  Dowdy !     Oh,  Kitty !" 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"It  must  be  that  man.  Oh,  was  there  ever 
such  a  trouble — " 

"Really,  Minnie  dearest,  you  are  allowing 
yourself  to  get  too  agitated.  Who  is  this  per 
son  ?"' 

"  He — he's — an — American." 

"  An  American  ?  Why,  I  just  said  that  I 
thought  he  might  be  one.  I  didn't  know  that 
you  were  acquainted  with  any." 

"  Oh  yes ;  I  did  get  acquainted  with  some  in 
— in  Canada. " 

"  Oh  ;  and  is  this  man  a  Canadian  ?'' 

"No,  Dowdy  darling;  only  an  American." 

"Well,  if  he's  a  friend  of  yours,  I  suppose 
you  know  something  about  him.  But  how  sin 
gular  it  is  that  you  have  so  completely  forgot 
ten  his  name.  Atramonte?  Why,  I'm  sure 
it's  a  very  singular  name  for  an  American  gen 
tleman — at  least  it  seems  so  to  me — but  I  don't 
know  much  about  them,  you  know.  Tell  me, 
darling,  who  is  he  ?" 

"He — he  saved  my  life." 

"What!  saved  your  life  ?  Why,  my  precious 
child,  what  are  you  talking  about  ?  It  was  the 
Italian  that  saved  your  life,  you  know,  not 
this  one." 

"Oh,  but  he  did  too,"  said  Minnie,  despair 
ingly.  "I  couldn't  help  it.  He  would  do  it. 
Papa  was  washed  away.  I  wish  they  all  wouldn't 
be  so  horrid." 

Lady  Dalrymple  looked  in  an  equally  despair 
ing  manner  at  Mrs.  Willoughby. 

"What  is  it,  Kitty  dear?  Is  the  child  in 
sane,  or  what  does  she  mean  ?  How  could  this 
person  have  saved  her  life  ?" 

"That's  just  what  distracts  me,"  said  Min 
nie.  "They  all  do  it.  Every  single  person 
comes  and  saves  my  life.  And  now  I  suppose 
I  must  go  down  and  see  this  person." 

"Well,  really,  since  you  say  he  saved  your 
life,  perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  not  to  be  un 
civil,"  said  Lady  Dalrymple ;  "but,  at  the  same 
time,  he  seems  to  me  to  act  in  a  very  extraor 
dinary  manner.  And  he  calls  himself  a  Baron. 
Do  they  have  nobles  in  America?" 

' '  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  Dowdy  dear.  I 
never  knew  that  he  was  a  Baron.  He  may 
have  been  the  son  of  some  American  B^aron ; 
and — and —  I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

"Nonsense,  Minnie  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Wil 
loughby.  "This  man's  title  is  a  foreign  one. 
He  probably  obtained  it  in  Italy  or  Spain,  or 
perhaps  Mexico.  I  think  they  have  titles  in 
Mexico,  though  I  really  don't  know." 

"  Why,  of  course,  one  isn't  expected  to  know 
any  thing  about  America,"  said  Lady  Dalrym 
ple.  "I  can  mention  quite  a  number  of  En 
glish  statesmen,  members  of  the  cabinet,  and 
others,  who  don't  know  any  more  about  Ameri 
ca  than  I  do." 

"Do  you  really  intend  to  go  down  yourself 
and  see  him,  Minnie  dear?"  asked  Mrs.  Wil 
loughby. 


"  How  can  I  help  it  ?  What  am  I  to  do  ?  I 
must  go,  Kitty  darling.  He  is  so  very  positive, 
and — and  he  insists  so.  I  don't  want  to  hurt 
his  feelings,  you  know  ;  and  I  really  think  there 
is  nothing  for  me  to  do  but  to  go.  What  do 
you  think  about  it,  Dowdy  dear  ?"  and  she  ap 
pealed  to  her  aunt. 

"Well,  Minnie,  my  child,  I  think  it  would 
be  best  not  to  be  unkind  or  uncivil,  since  he 
saved  your  life." 

Upon  this  Minnie  accompanied  her  sister  to 
see  the  visitor. 

Mrs.  Willoughby  entered  the  room  first,  and 
Minnie  was  close  behind  her,  as  though  she 
sought  protection  from  some  unknown  peril. 
On  entering  the  room  they  saw  a  man  dressed 
in  Zouave  uniform.  His  hair  was  cropped 
short ;  he  wore  a  mustache  and  no  beard  ;  his 
features  were  regular  and  handsome ;  while  a 
pair  of  fine  dark  eyes  were  looking  earnestly 
at  the  door,  and  the  face  and  the  eyes  had  the 
expression  of  one  who  is  triumphantly  await 
ing  the  result  of  some  agreeable  surprise.  Mrs. 
Willoughby  at  once  recognized  the  stranger  as 
the  Zouave  officer  who  had  stared  at  them  near 
the  Church  of  the  Jesuits.  She  advanced  with 
lady-like  grace  toward  him,  when  suddenly  he 
stepped  hastily  past  her,  without  taking  any 
notice  of  her,  and  catching  Minnie  in  his  arms, 
he  kissed  her  several  times. 

Mrs.  Willoughby  started  back  in  horror. 

Minnie  did  not  resist,  nor  did  she  scream,  or 
faint,  or  do  any  thing.  She  only  looked  a  little 
confused,  and  managed  to  extricate  herself,  aft 
er  which  she  took  a  scat  as  far  away  as  she 
could,  putting  her  sister  between  her  and  the 
Zouave.  But  the  Zouave's  joy  was  full,  and 
he  didn't  appear  to  notice  it.  He  settled  him 
self  in  a  chair,  and  laughed  loud  in  his  happi 
ness. 

"Only  to  think  of  it,"  said  he.  "Why,  I 
had  no  more  idea  of  your  being  here,  Minnie, 
than  Victory.  Well,  here  you  see  me.  Only 
been  here  a  couple  of  months  or  so.  You  got  my 
last  favor,  of  course?  And  ain't  you  regular 
knocked  up  to  see  me  a  Baron  ?  Yes,  a  Baron 
— a  real,  live  Baron !  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it. 
You  see  I  was  here  two  or  three  years  ago — the 
time  of  Montana — and  fought  on  the  Pope's  side. 
Odd  thing,  too,  wasn't  it,  for  an  American  ?  But 
so  it  was.  Well,  they  promoted  me,  and  want 
ed  me  to  stay.  But  I  couldn't  fix  it.  I  had 
business  off  home,  and  was  on  my  way  there 
the  time  of  the  shipwreck.  Well,  I've  been 
dodgin'  all  round  every  where  since  then,  but 
never  forgettin'  little  Min,  mind  you,  and  at 
last  I  found  myself  here,  all  right.  I'd  been 
speculatin'  in  wines  and  raisins,  and  just  dropped 
in  here  to  take  pot-luck  with  some  old  Zouave 
friends,  when,  darn  me!  if  they  didn't  make 
me  stay.  It  seems  there's  squally  times  ahead. 
They  wanted  a  live  man.  They  knew  I  was 
that  live  man.  They  offered  me  any  thing  I 
wanted.  They  offered  me  the  title  of  Baron 
Atramonte.  That  knocked  me,  I  tell  you. 
SMVS  I,  I'm  your  man.  So  now  you  see  me 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


59 


"CATCHING   MINNIE   IN   HIS   ARMS,  HE   KISSED  HEB  SEVEBAL  TIMES." 


Baron  Atramonte,  captain  in  the  Papal  Zon- 
aves,  ready  to  go  where  glory  waits  me — but 
fonder  than  ever  of  little  Min.  Oh,  I  tell  you 
what,  I  ain't  a  bit  of  a  brag,  but  I'm  some  here. 
The  men  think  I'm  a  little  the  tallest  lot  in 
the  shape  of  a  commander  they  ever  did  see. 
When  I'm  in  Rome  I  do  as  the  Romans  do, 
and  so  I  let  fly  at  them  a  speech  every  now 
and  then.  Why,  I've  gone  through  nearly  the 
whole  'National  Speaker'  by  this  time.  I've 
given  them  Marcellus's  speech  to  the  mob,  Bru- 
tus's  to  the  Romans,  and  Antony's  over  Caesar's 
dead  body.  I  tried  a  bit  of  Cicero  against 
Catiline,  but  I  couldn't  remember  it  very  well. 
You  know  it,  of  course.  Qumtsque  tandem,  you 
know. 

"Well,  Min,  how  goes  it?"  he  continued. 
"This  is  jolly ;  and,  what's  more,  it's  real  good 
in  you — darn  me  if  it  ain't !  I  knew  you'd  be 
regularly  struck  up  all  of  a  heap  when  you  heard 
of  me  as  a  Baron,  but  I  really  didn't  think  you'd 
come  all  the  way  here  to  see  me.  And  you  do 
look  stunning !  You  do  beat  all !  And  this 
lady  ?  You  haven't  introduced  me,  you  know." 

The  Baron  rose,  and  looked  expectantly  at 


Mrs.  Willoughby,  and  then  at  Minnie.  The 
latter  faltered  forth  some  words,  among  which 
the  Baron  caught  the  names  Mrs.  Willoughby 
and  Rufus  K.  Gunn,  the  latter  name  pronounced, 
with  the  middle  initial  and  all,  in  a  queer,  prim 
way. 

"  Mrs.  Willoughby — ah ! — Min's  sister,  I  pre 
sume.  Well,  I'm  pleased  to  see  you,  ma'am. 
Do  you  know,  ma'am,  I  have  reason  to  re 
member  your  name?  It's  associated  with  the 
brightest  hours  of  my  life.  It  was  in  your  par 
lor,  ma'am,  that  I  first  obtained  Min's  promise 
of  her  hand.  Your  hand,  madam." 

And,  stooping  down,  he  grasped  Mrs.  Wil- 
loughby's  hand,  which  was  not  extended,  and 
wrung  it  so  hard  that  she  actually  gave  a  little 
shriek. 

"For  my  part,  ma'am,"  he  continued,  "I'm 
not  ashamed  of  my  name — not  a  mite.  It's  a 
good,  honest  name:  but  being  as  the  Holy 
Father's  gone  and  made  me  a  noble,  I  prefer 
being  addressed  by  my  title.  All  Americans 
are  above  titles.  They  despise  them.  But  be 
ing  in  Rome,  you  see,  we  must  do  as  the  Ro 
mans  do  ;  and  so  you  needn't  know  me  as  Rnfus 


60 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


K.  Gunn,  but  as  the  Baron  Atramonte.  As  for 
you,  Min — you  and  I  won't  stand  on  ceremony 
— you  may  call  me  'Roof,'  or  any  other  name 
you  fancy.  I  would  suggest  some  pet  name — 
something  a  little  loving,  you  know." 

In  the  midst  of  all  this,  which  was  poured 
forth  with  extreme  volubility,  the  servant  came 
and  handed  a  card. 

"Count  Girasole." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE   AMERICAN   BABON. 

AT  any  other  time  Mrs.  Willoughby  would 
perhaps  have  manoeuvred  Minnie  out  of  the 
room ;  but  on  the  present  occasion  the  ad 
vent  of  the  Italian  was  an  inexpressible  relief. 
Mrs.  Willoughby  was  not  prepared  for  a  scene 
like  this.  The  manners,  the  language,  and  the 
acts  of  Rufus  K.  Gunn  had  filled  her  with  sim 
ple  horror.  She  was  actually  bewildered,  and 
her  presence  of  mind  was  utterly  gone.  As  for 
Minnie,  she  was  quite  helpless,  and  sat,  looking 
frightened.  The  Baron  Atramonte  might  have 
been  one  of  the  excellent  of  the  earth — he  might 
have  been  brave  and  loyal  and  just  and  true  and 
tender,  but  his  manner  was  one  to  which  they 
were  unaccustomed,  and  consequently  Mrs. 
Willoughby  was  quite  overcome. 

The  arrival  of  Girasole,  therefore,  was  greet 
ed  by  her  with  joy.  She  at  once  rose  to  meet 
him,  and  could  not  help  infusing  into  her  greet 
ing  a  warmth  which  she  had  never  shown  him 
before.  Girasole's  handsome  eyes  sparkled 
with  delight,  and  when  Mrs.  Willoughby  point 
edly  made  way  for  him  to  seat  himself  next  to 
Minnie  his  cup  of  joy  was  full.  Mrs.  Wil- 
loughby's  only  idea  at  that  moment  was  to 


throw  some  obstacle  between  Minnie  and  that 
"  dreadful  person"  who  claimed  her  as  his  own, 
and  had  taken  such  shocking  liberties.  She 
did  not  know  that  Girasole  was  in  Rome,  and 
now  accepted  his  arrival  at  that  opportune  mo 
ment  as  something  little  less  than  providential. 

And  now,  actuated  still  by  the  idea  of  throw 
ing  further  obstacles  between  Minnie  and  the 
Baron,  she  herself  went  over  to  the  latter, 
and  began  a  series  of  polite  remarks  about  the 
weather  and  about  Rome ;  while  Girasole,  eager 
to  avail  himself  of  his  unexpected  privilege, 
conversed  with  Minnie  in  a  low  voice  in  his 
broken  English. 

This  arrangement  was  certainly  not  very 
agreeable  to  the  Baron.  His  flow  of  spirits 
seemed  to  be  checked  at  once,  and  his  volu 
bility  ceased.  He  made  only  monosyllabic  an 
swers  to  Mrs.  Willoughby's  remarks,  and  his 
eyes  kept  wandering  over  beyond  her  to  Min 
nie,  and  scrutinizing  the  Italian  who  was  thus 
monopolizing  her  at  the  very  moment  when  he 
was  beginning  to  have  a  "realizing  sense"  of  her 
presence.  He  looked  puzzled.  He  could  not 
understand  it  at  all.  He  felt  that  some  wrong 
was  done  by  somebody.  He  fell  into  an  un 
gracious  mood.  He  hated  the  Italian  who  had 
thus  come  between  him  and  his  happiness,  and 
who  chatted  with  Minnie,  in  his  abominable 
broken  English,  just  like  an  old  acquaintance. 
He  couldn't  understand  it.  He  felt  an  unpleas 
ant  restraint  thrown  over  him,  and  began  to 
meditate  a  departure,  and  a  call  at  some  more 
favorable  time  later  in  the  evening.  But  he 
wanted  to  have  a  few  more  words  with  "  Min," 
and  so  he  tried  to  "  sit  out"  the  Italian. 

But  the  Italian  was  as  determined  as  the 
American.  It  was  the  first  chance  that  he  had 
had  to  get  a  word  with  Minnie  since  he  was  in 
Milan,  and  he  was  eager  to  avail  himself  of  it. 
Mrs.  Willoughby,  on  her  part,  having  thus  dis 
comfited  the  Baron,  was  not  unmindful  of  the 
other  danger ;  so  she  moved  her  seat  to  a  posi 
tion  near  enough  to  overlook  and  check  Gira 
sole,  and  then  resumed  those  formal,  chilling, 
heartless,  but  perfectly  polite  remarks  which 
she  had  been  administering  to  the  Baron  since 
Girasole's  arrival. 

At  length  Mrs.  Willoughby  began  to  be  dread 
fully  bored,  and  groaned  in  spirit  over  the  sit 
uation  in  which  Minnie  had  placed  herself,  and 
racked  her  brains  to  find  some  way  of  retreat 
from  these  two  determined  lovers,  who  thus  set 
at  naught  the  usages  of  society  for  their  own 
convenience.  She  grew  indignant.  She  won 
dered  if  they  would  ever  go.  She  wondered  if 
it  were  not  possible  to  engage  the  Count  and 
the  Baron  in  a  conversation  by  themselves,  and, 
under  cover  of  it,  withdraw.  Finally  she  began 
to  think  whether  she  would  not  be  justified  in 
being  rude  to  them,  since  they  were  so  incon 
siderate.  She  thought  over  this,  and  was  rap 
idly  coming  to  the  decision  that  some  act  of 
rudeness  was  her  only  hope,  when,  to  her  im 
mense  relief,  the  servant  entered  and  announced 
Lord  Hawbury. 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


61 


The  entrance  of  the  welcome  guest  into  the 
room  where  the  unwelcome  ones  were  seated 
was  to  Mrs.  Willoughby  like  light  in  a  dark 
place.  To  Minnie  also  it  brought  immense  re 
lief  in  her  difficult  position.  The  ladies  rose, 
and  were  about  to  greet  the  new-comer,  when, 
to  their  amazement,  the  Baron  sprang  forward, 
caught  Lord  Hawbury's  hand,  and  wrung  it 
over  and  over  again  with  the  most  astonishing 
vehemence. 

"Hawbury,  as  I'm  a  living  sinner!  Thun- 
deration !  Where  did  you  come  from  ?  Good 
again  !  Darn  it  all,  Hawbury,  this  is  real  good ! 
And  how  well  you  look !  How  are  you  ?  All 
right,  and  right  side  up  ?  Who'd  have  thought 
it  ?  It  ain't  you,  really,  now,  is  it  ?  Darn  me 
if  I  ever  was  so  astonished  in  my  life !  You're 
the  last  man  I'd  have  expected.  Yes,  Sir. 
You  may  bet  high  on  that." 

"Ah,  really,"  said  Hawbury,  "my  dear  fel 
low  !  Flattered,  I'm  sure.  And  how  goes  it 
with  you  ?  Deuced  odd  place  to  find  you,  old 
boy.  And  I'm  deuced  glad  to  see  you,  you 
know,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

And  he  wrung  the  Baron's  hand  quite  as 
heartily  as  the  other  wrung  his;  and  the  ex 
pression  on  his  face  was  of  as  much  cordiality 
and  pleasure  as  that  upon  the  face  of  the  other. 
Then  Hawbury  greeted  the  ladies,  and  apolo 
gized  by  stating  that  the  Baron  was  a  very  old 
and  tried  friend,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for 
years ;  which'  intelligence  surprised  Mrs.  Wil 
loughby  greatly,  and  brought  a  faint  ray  of 
something  like  peace  to  poor  Minnie. 

The  ladies  were  not  imprisoned  much  lon 
ger.  Girasole  threw  a  black  look  at  Lord 
Hawbury,  and  retreated.  After  a  few  moments' 
chat  Hawbury  also  retired,  and  made  the  Baron 
go  with  him.  And  the  Baron  went  without 
any  urging.  He  insisted,  however,  on  shaking 
hands  heartily  with  both  of  the  ladies,  especial 
ly  Minnie,  whose  poor  little  hand  he  nearly 
crushed  into  a  pulp ;  and  to  the  latter  he  whis 
pered  the  consoling  assurance  that  he  would 
come  to  see  her  on  the  following  day.  After 
which  he  followed  his  friend  out. 

Then  he  took  Hawbury  over  to  his  own  quar 
ters,  and  Hawbury  made  himself  very  much  at 
home  in  a  rocking-chair,  which  the  Baron  re 
garded  as  the  pride  and  joy  and  glory  of  his 
room. 

"By  Jove!"  cried  Hawbury.  "This  is 
deuced  odd,  do  you  know,  old  chap ;  and  I  can't 
imagine  how  the  mischief  you  got  here!" 

This  led  to  long  explanations,  and  a  long 
conversation,  which  was  protracted  far  into  the 
night,  to  the  immense  enjoyment  of  both  of  the 
friends. 

The  Baron  was,  as  Lord  Hawbury  had  said, 
an  old  friend.  He  had  become  acquainted  with 
him  many  years  before  upon  the  prairies  of 
America,  near  the  Rocky  Mountains.  The 
Baron  had  rescued  him  from  Indians,  by  whom 
he  had  been  entrapped,  and  the  two  friends  had 
wandered  far  over  those  regions,  enduring  per 
ils,  fighting  enemies,  and  roughing  it  in  general. 


This  rough  life  had  made  each  one's  better  na 
ture  visible  to  the  other,  and  had  led  to  the 
formation  of  a  friendship  full  of  mutual  appre 
ciation  of  the  other's  best  qualities.  Now  it  is 
just  possible  that  if  they  had  not  known  one 
another,  Hawbury  might  have  thought  the  Bar 
on  a  boor,  and  the  Baron  might  have  called 
Hawbury  a  "thundering  snob;"  but  as  it  was, 
the  possible  boor  and  the  possible  snob  each 
thought  the  other  one  of  the  finest  fellows  in 
the  world. 

"But  you're  not  a  Roman  Catholic,"  said 
Hawbury,  as  the  Baron  explained  his  position 
among  the  Zouaves. 

"  What's  the  odds  ?  All's  fish  that  comes  to 
their  net.  To  get  an  office  in  the  Church  may 
require  a  profession  of  faith,  but  we're  not  so 
particular  in  the  army.  I  take  the  oath,  and 
they  let  me  go.  Besides,  I  have  Roman  Cath 
olic  leanings." 

"  Roman  Catholic  leanings  ?" 

"Yes;  I  like  the  Pope.  He's  a  fine  man, 
Sir — a  fine  man.  I  regard  that  man  more  like 
a  father  than  any  thing  else.  There  isn't  one 
of  us  but  would  lay  down  our  lives  for  that  old 
gentleman." 

"  But  you  never  go  to  confession,  and  you're 
not  a  member  of  the  Church." 

"No;  but  then  I'm  a  member  of  the  army, 
and  I  have  long  chats  with  some  of  the  En 
glish-speaking  priests.  There  are  some  first- 
rate  fellows  among  them,  too.  Yes,  Sir." 

"I  don't  see  much  of  a  leaning  in  all  that." 

"Leaning?     Why,  it's  all  leaning.     Why, 

look  here.     I  remember  the  time  when  I  was 

a  grim,  true-blue  Puritan.     Well,  I  ain't  that 

now.     I  used  to  think  the  Pope  was  the  Beast 

of  the  'Pocalypse.     Well,  now  I  think  he's  the 

finest  old  gentleman  I  ever  saw.     I  didn't  use 

|  to  go  to  Catholic  chapel.     Well,  now  I'm  there 

j  often,  and  I  rather  kind  o'  like  it.    Besides,  I'm 

i  ready  to  argue  with  them  all  day  and  all  night, 

and  what  more  can  they  expect  from  a  fighting 

man? 

"You  see,  after  our  war  I  got  my  hand  in,  and 
couldn't  stop  fighting.  The  Indians  wouldn't 
do — too  much  throat -cutting  and  savagery. 
So  I  came  over  here,  took  a  fancy  to  the  Pope, 
enlisted,  was  at  Montana,  fit  there,  got  promot 
ed,  went  home,  couldn't  stand  it,  and  here  I 
am,  back  again ;  though  how  long  I'm  going  to 
be  liere  is  more'n  I  can  tell.  The  fact  is,  I  feel 
|  kind  of  onsettled." 

"Why  so?" 

"  Oh,  it's  an  aggravating  place,  at  the  best." 

"How?" 

"There's  such  an  everlasting  waste  of  re 
sources  —  such  tarnation  bad  management. 
Fact  is,  I've  noted  that  it's  always  the  case 
wherever  you  trust  ministers  to  do  business. 
They're  sure  to  make  a  mess  of  it.  I've  known 
lots  of  cases.  Why,  that's  always  the  way  with 
us.  Look  at  our  stock-companies  of  any  kind, 
our  religious  societies,  and  our  publishing  houses 
— wherever  they  get  a  ministerial  committee, 
the  whole  concern  goes  to  blazes.  I  know  that. 


62 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


Yes,  Sir.  Now  that's  the  case  here.  Here's  a 
fine  country.  Why,  round  this  here  city  there's 
a  country,  Sir,  that,  if  properly  managed,  might 
beat  any  of  our  prairies — and  look  at  it. 

"Then,  again,  they  complain  of  poverty. 
Why,  I  can  tell  you,  from  my  own  observation, 
that  they've  got  enough  capital  locked  up,  lying 
useless,  in  this  here  city,  to  regenerate  it  all, 
and  put  it  on  its  feet.  This  capital  wants  to  be 
utilized.  It's  been  lying  too  long  without  pay 
ing  interest.  It's  time  that  it  stopped.  Why, 
I  tell  you  what  it  is,  if  they  were  to  sell  out 
what  they  have  here  lying  idle,  and  realize, 
they'd  get  enough  money  to  form  an  endow 
ment  fund  for  the  Pope  and  his  court  so  big 
that  his  Holiness  and  every  official  in  the  place 
might  get  salaries  all  round  out  of  the  interest 
that  would  enable  them  to  live  like — well,  I  was 
going  to  say  like  princes,  but  there's  a  lot  of 
princes  in  Rome  that  live  so  shabby  that  the 
comparison  ain't  worth  nothing. 

"  Why,  see  here,  now,"  continued  the  Baron, 
warming  with  his  theme,  which  seemed  to  be  a 
congenial  one;  "just  look  here;  see  the  posi 
tion  of  this  Roman  court.  They  can  actually 
levy  taxes  on  the  whole  world.  Voluntary  con 
tributions,  Sir,  are  a  wonderful  power.  Think 
of  our  missionary  societies — our  Sabbath-school 
organizations  in  the  States.  Think  of  the  wealth, 
the  activity,  and  the  action  of  all  our  great  char 
itable,  philanthropic,  and  religious  bodies.  What 
supports  them  all?  Voluntary  contributions. 
Now  what  I  mean  to  say  is  this — I  mean  to  say 
that  if  a  proper  organization  was  arranged  here, 
they  could  get  annual  receipts  from  the  whole 
round  globe  that  would  make  the  Pope  the 
richest  man  on  it.  Why,  in  that  case  Roths 
child  wouldn't  be  a  circumstance.  The  Pope 
might  go  into  banking  himself,  and  control  the 
markets  of  the  world.  But  no.  There's  a  lot 
of  ministers  here,  and  they  haven't  any  head 
for  it.  I  wish  they'd  give  me  a  chance.  I'd 
make  things  spin. 

"  Then,  again,  they've  got  other  things  here 
that's  ruining  them.  There's  too  much  repres 
sion,  and  that  don't  do  for  the  immortal  mind. 
My  idea  is  that  every  man  was  created  free  and 
equal,  and  has  a  right  to  do  just  as  he  darn 
pleases;  but  you  can't  beat  that  into  the  heads 
of  the  governing  class  here.  No,  Sir.  The 
fact  is,  what  Rome  wants  is  a  republic.  It  '11 
come,  too,  some  day.  The  great  mistake  of 
his  Holiness's  life  is  that  he  didn't  put  himself 
at  the  head  of  the  movement  in  '48.  He  had 
the  chance,  but  he  got  frightened,  and  backed 
down.  Whereas  if  he  had  been  a  real,  live 
Yankee,  now — if  he  had  been  like  some  of  our 
Western  parsons — he'd  have  put  himself  on  the 
tiptop  of  the  highest  wave,  and  gone  in.  Why, 
he  could  have  had  all  Italy  at  his  right  hand  by 
this  time,  instead  of  having  it  all  against  him. 
There's  where  he  made  his  little  mistake.  If 
I  were  Pope  I'd  fight  the  enemy  with  their  own 
weapons.  I'd  accept  the  situation.  I'd  go  in 
head  over  heels  for  a  republic.  I'd  have  Rome 
the  capital,  myself  president,  Garibaldi  com- 


mander-in-chief,  Mazzini  secretary  of  state — 
a  man,  Sir,  that  can  lick  even  Bill  Seward  him 
self  in  a  regular,  old-fashioned,  tonguey,  sub 
tile,  diplomatic  note.  And  in  that  case,  with 
a  few  live  men  at  the  head  of  affairs,  where 
would  Victor  Emanuel  be  ?  Emphatically,  no 
where  ! 

"Why,  Sir,  "continued  the  Baron,  "I'd  en 
gage  to  take  this  city  as  it  is,  and  the  office  of 
Pope,  and  run  the  whole  Roman  Catholic 
Church,  till  it  knocked  out  all  opposition  by 
the  simple  and  natural  process  of  absorbing  all 
opponents.  We  want  a  republic  here  in  Rome. 
We  want  freedom,  Sir.  Where  is  the  Church 
making  its  greatest  triumphs  to-day?  In  the 
States,  Sir.  If  the  Catholic  Church  made  it 
self  free  and  liberal  and  go-ahead ;  if  it  kept 
up  with  the  times;  if  it  was  imbued  with  the 
spirit  of  progress,  and  pitched  aside  all  old- 
fashioned  traditions  —  why,  I  tell  you,  Sir,  it 
would  be  a  little  the  tallest  organization  on  this 
green  globe  of  ours.  Yes,  Sir.'" 

While  Hawbury  and  the  Baron  were  thus 
engaged  in  high  discourse,  Mrs.  Willoughby  and 
Minnie  were  engaged  in  discourses  of  a  less 
elevated  but  more  engrossing  character. 

After  the  ladies  had  escaped  they  went  up 
stairs.  Lady  Dairy mple  had  retired  some  time 
before  to  her  own  room,  and  they  had  the 
apartment  to  themselves.  Minnie  flung  herself 
into  a  chair  and  looked  bewildered  ;  Mrs.  Wil 
loughby  took  another  chair  opposite,  and  said 
nothing  for  a  long  time. 

"Well,"  said  Minnie  at  last,  "you  needn't 
be  so  cross,  Kitty ;  I  didn't  bring  him  here." 

"Cross!"  said  her  sister;  "I'm not  cross." 

"  Well,  you're  showing  temper,  at  any  rate  ; 
and  you  know  you  are,  and  I  think  it  very 
unkind  in  you,  when  I  have  so  much  to  trouble 
me." 

"  Why,  really,  Minnie  darling,  I  don't  know 
what  to  say." 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  tell  me  what  you 
think  of  him,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing?  You 
might,  you  know." 

"  Think  of  him !"  repeated  Mrs.  Willoughby, 
elevating  her  eyebrows. 

"Yes,  think  of  him;  and  you  needn't  go 
and  make  faces  about  him,  at  any  rate." 

"  Did  I  make  faces  ?  Well,  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Willoughby,  patiently,  "I'll  tell  you  what  I 
think  of  him.  I'm  afraid  of  him." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Minnie,  in  a  tone  of 
triumph,  "  now  you  know  how  I  feel.  Sup 
pose  he  saved  your  life,  and  then  came  in  his 
awfully  boisterous  way  to  see  you ;  and  got 
you  alone,  and  began  that  way,  and  really 
quite  overwhelmed  you,  you  know  ;  and  then, 
when  you  were  really  almost  stunned,  suppose 
he  went  and  proposed  to  you  ?  Now,  then  !" 

And  Minnie  ended  this  question  with  the  air 
of  one  who  could  not  be  answered,  and  knew  it. 

"  He's  awful — perfectly  awful ! "  said  Mrs. 
Willoughby.  "And  the  way  he  treated  you! 
It  was  so  shocking." 

"I  know ;  and  that's  just  the  horrid  way  he 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


63 


"LOOK  AT  THE  MAN!" 

always  does,"  said  Minnie,  in  a  plaintive  tone. 
"  I'm  sure  /  don't  know  what  to  do  with  him. 
And  then  he's  Lord  Hawbury's  friend.  So 
what  are  we  to  do?" 

"I  don't  know,  unless  we  leave  Rome  at 
once." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  leave  Rome,"  said  Min 
nie.  "I  hate  being  chased  away  from  places 
by  people — and  they'd  be  sure  to  follow  me, 
you  know — and  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  And 
oh,  Kitty  darling,  I've  just  thought  of  some 
thing.  It  would  be  so  nice.  What  do  you 
think  of  it?" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Why,  this.     You  know  the  Pope ?" 

"No,  I  don't," 

"  Oh,  well,  you've  seen  him,  you  know." 

"  Yes ;  but  what  has  he  got  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"  Why,  I'll  get  you  to  take  me,  and  I'll  go 
to  him,  and  tell  him  all  about  it,  and  about  all 
these  horrid  men;  and  I'll  ask  him  if  he  can't 
do  something  or  other  to  help  me.  They  have 
dispensations  and  things,  you  know,  that  the 
Pope  gives ;  and  I  want  him  to  let  me  dispense 
with  these  awful  people." 


"Nonsense!"  said 
Mrs.  Willoughby. 

"I  don't  see  any 
nonsense  in  it  at  all. 
I'm  in  earnest,"  said 
Minnie;  "and  I  think 
it's  a  great  shame." 

"Nonsense!"  said 
her  sister  again ;  "the 
only  thing  is  for  you  to 
stay  in  your  room." 

"But  I  don't  want 
to  stay  in  my  room, 
and  I  can't." 

"  Oh  dear  !  what 
can  I  do  with  this 
child  ?"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Willoughby, 
whose  patience  was 
giving  way. 

Upon  this  Minnie 
went  over  and  kissed 
her,  and  begged  to  be 
forgiven ;  and  offered 
to  do  any  thing  that 
darling  Kitty  wanted 
her  to  do. 

After  this  they  talk 
ed  a  good  deal  over 
their  difficulty,  but 
without  being  able  to 
see  their  way  out  of  it 
more  clearly. 

That  evening  they 
were  walking  up  and 
down  the  balcony  of 
the  house.  It  was  a 
quadrangular  edifice, 
and  they  had  a  suit 
of  rooms  on  the  sec 
ond  and  third  stories. 

They  were  on  the  balcony  of  the  third  story, 
which  looked  down  into  the  court-yard  below. 
A  fountain  was  in  the  middle  of  this,  and  the 
moon  was  shining  brightly. 

The  ladies  were  standing  looking  down,  when 
Minnie  gently  touched  her  sister's  arm,  and 
whispered, 

"Look  at  the  man!" 
"Where?" 
"By  the  fountain." 

Mrs.  Willoughby  looked,  and  saw  the  face 
of  a  man  who  was  standing  on  the  other  side 
of  the  fountain.  His  head  rose  above  it,  and 
his  face  was  turned  toward  them.  He  evidently 
did  not  know  that  he  was  seen,  but  was  watch 
ing  the  ladies,  thinking  that  he  himself  was  un 
observed.  The  moment  that  Mrs.  Willoughby 
looked  at  the  face  she  recognized  it. 

"  Come  in,"  said  she  to  Minnie.  And  draw 
ing  her  sister  after  her,  she  went  into  the  house. 
"I  knew  the  face ;  didn't  you,  Kitty  dear?" 
said  Minnie.  "  It's  so  easy  to  tell  it.  It  was 
Scone  Dacres.  But  what  in  the  world  does 
he  want  ?  Oh  dear !  I  hope  fie  won't  bother 
me." 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE    INTRUDER. 

JUDGING  from  the  Baron's  own  words,  it  will 
be  perceived  that  his  comprehension  of  the  sit 
uation  was  a  little  different  from  the  actual  fact. 
His  idea  was  that  his  last  letter  had  been  re 
ceived  by  Minnie  in  England,  whereupon  she 
had  been  seized  with  such  an  ungovernable 
longing  to  see  him  that  she  at  once  set  out  for 
Rome.  She  had  not  sent  him  any  message,  for 
she  wished  to  surprise  him.  She  had  done  so 
effectually.  He  was  not  merely  surprised ;  he 
was  overwhelmed,  overjoyed,  intoxicated  with 
joy.  This  was  indeed  kind,  he  thought — the 
true  part  of  a  fond  girl,  who  thus  cast  aside  all 
sill}'  scruples,  and  followed  the  dictates  of  her 
own  noble  and  loving  heart. 

Now  the  fact  that  he  had  made  a  partial  fail 
ure  of  his  first  visit  to  his  charmer  did  not  in 
the  slightest  degree  disconcert  him.  He  was 
naturally  joyous,  hilarious,  and  sanguine.  His 
courage  never  faltered,  nor  could  the  brightness 
of  his  soul  be  easily  dimmed.  A  disappoint 
ment  on  one  day  gave  him  but  little  trouble. 
It  was  quickly  thrown  off,  and  then  his  buoyant 
spirit  looked  forward  for  better  fortune  on  the 
next  day.  The  little  disappointment  which  he 
had  did  not,  therefore,  prevent  him  from  letting 
his  reason  feast  and  his  soul  flow  with  Lord 
Hawbury ;  nor,  when  that  festive  season  was 
over,  did  it  prevent  him  from  indulging  in  the 
brightest  anticipations  for  the  following  day. 

On  the  afternoon  of  that  day,  then,  the  Baron 
directed  his  steps  toward  the  hotel  where  his 
charmer  resided,  his  heart  beating  high,  and  the 
generous  blood  mantling  his  cheek,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  But  the  Baron  was  not  alone. 
He  had  a  companion,  and  this  companion  was 
an  acquaintance  whom  he  had  made  that  morn 
ing.  This  companion  was  very  tall,  very  thin, 
very  sallow,  with  long,  straggling  locks  of  rusty 
black  hair,  white  neck-tie,  and  a  suit  of  rather 
seedy  black  clothes.  In  fact,  it  was  the  very 
stranger  who  had  been  arrested  almost  under 
his  eyes  as  a  Garibaldian.  His  case  had  come 
under  the  notice  of  the  Baron,  who  had  visit 
ed  him,  and  found  him  not  to  be  a  Garibaldian 
at  all,  but  a  fellow-countryman  in  distress — in 
short,  no  less  a  person  than  the  Reverend  Saul 
Tozer,  an  esteemed  clergyman,  who  had  been 
traveling  through  Europe  for  the  benefit  of  his 
health  and  the  enlargement  of  his  knowledge. 
This  fellow-countryman  in  distress  had  at  once 
been  released  by  the  Baron's  influence ;  and, 
not  content  with  giving  him  his  liberty,  he  de 
termined  to  take  him  under  his  protection,  and 
offered  to  introduce  him  to  society  ;  all  of  which 
generous  offices  were  fully  appreciated  by  the 
grateful  clergyman. 

The  Baron's  steps  were  first  directed  toward 
the  place  above  mentioned,  and  the  Reverend 
Saul  accompanied  him.  On  reaching  it  he 
knocked,  and  asked  for  Miss  Fay. 

"Not  at  home,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  he,  "  I'll  go  in  and  wait  till 


she  comes  home.  Come  along,  parson,  and 
make  yourself  quite  at  home.  Oh,  never  mind, 
young  man,"  he  continued  to  the  sen-ant;  "I 
know  the  way.  Come  along,  parson."  And 
with  these  words  he  led  the  way  into  the  re 
ception-room,  in  which  he  had  been  before. 

An  elderly  lady  was  seated  there  whom  the 
Baron  recognized  as  having  seen  before.  It  was 
Lady  Dalrymple,  whose  name  was,  of  course, 
unknown  to  him,  since  he  had  only  exchanged 
a  few  words  on  his  former  visit.  But  as  he  was 
naturally  chivalrous,  and  as  he  was  bent  on  mak 
ing  friends  with  all  in  the  house,  and  as  he  was 
also  in  a  glorious  state  of  good-will  to  the  en 
tire  human  race,  he  at  once  advanced  to  the 
lady  and  made  a  low  bow. 

"  How  do  you  do,  ma'am  ?" 

Lady  Dalrymple  bowed  good-naturedly,  for 
she  was  good-natured  to  a  fault. 

"I suppose  you  remember  me,  ma'am,"  said 
the  Baron,  in  rather  a  loud  voice ;  for,  as  the 
lady  was  elderly,  he  had  a  vague  idea  that  she 
was  deaf — which  impression,  I  may  mention, 
was  altogether  unfounded — "I  suppose  you  re 
member  me,  ma'am  ?  But  I  haven't  had  the 
pleasure  of  a  regular  introduction  to  you;  so 
we'll  waive  ceremony,  if  you  choose,  and  I'll  in 
troduce  myself.  I'm  the  Baron  Atramonte,  and 
this  is  my  very  particular  friend,  the  Reverend 
Saul  Tozer." 

"I'm  happy  to  make  your  acquaintance," 
said  Lady  Dalrymple,  with  a  smile,  and  not 
taking  the  Baron's  offered  hand — not,  however, 
from  pride,  but  simply  from  laziness — for  she 
hated  the  bother,  and  didn't  consider  it  good 
taste. 

"I  called  here,  ma'am,"  said  the  Baron,  with 
out  noticing  that  Lady  Dalrymple  had  not  in 
troduced  herself- — "  I  called  here,  ma'am,  to  see 
my  young  friend,  Miss  Minnie  Fay.  I'm  very 
soi*ry  that  she  ain't  at  home ;  but  since  I  am 
here,  I  rather  think  I'll  just  set  down  and  wait 
for  her.  I  s'pose  you  couldn't  tell  me,  ma'am, 
about  how  long  it  '11  be  before  she  comes  in?" 

Lady  Dalrymple  hadn't  any  idea. 

"All  right,"  said  the  Baron;  "the  longer 
she  keeps  me  waiting,  the  more  welcome  she'll 
be  when  she  does  come.  That's  all  I've  got  to 
say." 

So  the  Baron  handed  a  chair  to  the  Rever 
end  Saul,  and  then  selecting  another  for  him 
self  in  a  convenient  position,  he  ensconced  him 
self  in  it  as  snugly  as  possible,  and  sat  in  silence 
for  a  few  minutes.  Lady  Dalrymple  took  no 
notice  of  him  whatever,  but  appeared  to  be  en 
grossed  with  some  trifle  of  needle-work. 

After  about  five  minutes  the  Baron  resumed 
the  task  of  making  himself  agreeable. 

He  cleared  his  throat. 

"Long  in  these  parts,  ma'am?"  he  asked. 

"  Not  very  long,"  said  Lady  Dalrymple,  with 
her  \isual  bland  good-nature. 

"A  nice  place  this,"  continued  the  Baron. 

"Yes." 

"And  do  you  keep  your  health,  ma'am?"  in 
quired  the  Baron,  with  some  anxiety. 


THE  AMERICAN  BAROK 


"Thanks,"  said  Lady Dalrymple ;  which  ob 
servation  set  the  Baron's  mind  wondering  what 
she  meant  by  that. 

' '  Pray,  ma'am, "  said  he,  after  a  pause, ' '  might 
you  be  any  relation  to  a  young  lady  friend  of 
mine  that's  staying  here  named  Minnie  Fay  ?" 

"  A  little,"  said  Lady  Dalrymple ;  which  re 
mark  set  the  Baron  again  wondering.  And  he 
was  about  to  return  to  the  charge  with  another 
and  more  direct  question,  when  his  attention 
was  arrested  by  the  sound  of  footsteps  on  the 
stairs ;  so  he  sat  bolt  upright,  and  stared  hard 
at  the  door.  There  was  the  rustle  of  a  dress. 
The  Baron  rose.  So  did  the  Reverend  Saul 
Tozer.  The  lady  appeared.  It  was  not  Minnie. 
It  was  Mrs.  Willoughby. 

Now  during  the  Baron's  visit  there  had  been 
some  excitement  up  stairs.  The  ladies  had  told 
the  servants  that  they  were  not  at  home  to  any 
callers  that  day.  They  had  found  with  con 
sternation  how  carelessly  the  Baron  had  brushed 
aside  their  little  cobweb  regulation,  and  had 
heard  his  voice  as  he  strove  to  keep  up  an  easy 
conversation  with  their  aunt.  Whereupon  an 
earnest  debate  arose.  They  felt  that  it  was  not 
fair  to  leave  their  aunt  alone  with  the  Baron, 
and  that  one  of  them  should  go  to  the  rescue. 
To  Mrs.  Willoughby's  amazement,  Minnie  was 
anxious  to  go.  To  this  she  utterly  objected. 
Minnie  insisted,  and  Mrs.  Willoughby  was  in 
despair.  In  vain  she  reproached  that  most 
whimsical  of  young  ladies.  In  vain  she  remind 
ed  her  of  the  Baron's  rudeness  on  a  former  oc 
casion.  Minnie  simply  reminded  her  that  the 
Baron  had  saved  her  life.  At  last  Mrs.  Wil 
loughby  actually  had  to  resort  to  entreaties, 
and  thus  she  persuaded  Minnie  not  to  go  down. 
So  she  went  down  herself,  but  in  fear  and  trem 
bling,  for  she  did  not  know  at  what  moment 
her  voluble  and  utterly  unreliable  sister  might 
take  it  into  her  head  to  follow  her. 

The  Baron,  who  had  risen,  full  of  expecta 
tion,  stood  looking  at  her,  full  of  disappoint 
ment,  which  was  very  strongly  marked  on  his 
face.  Then  he  recollected  that  Minnie  was 
"not  at  home,"  and  that  he  must  wait  till  she 
did  get  home.  This  thought,  and  the  hope 
that  he  would  not  now  have  long  to  wait, 
brought  back  his  friendly  glow,  and  his  calm 
and  his  peace  and  his  good-will  toward  the 
whole  human  race,  including  the  ladies  in  the 
room.  He  therefore  bowed  very  low,  and,  ad 
vancing,  he  made  an  eifort  to  shake  hands ; 
but  Mrs.  Willoughby  had  already  known  the 
dread  pressure  which  the  Baron  gave,  and 
evaded  him  by  a  polite  bow.  Thereupon  the 
Baron  introduced  the  Reverend  Saul  Tozer. 

The  Baron  took  out  his  watch,  looked  at 
it,  frowned,  coughed,  put  it  back,  and  then 
drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the  arm  of  the 
chair. 

"Will  it  be  long,  ma'am, "asked  the  Baron, 
"before  Minnie  gets  back?" 

"  She  is  not  out,"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby. 

"Not  out?" 

"No." 

E 


"  Why,  the  thundering  fool  of  a  servant  went 
and  told  me  that  she  was  not  at  home  ! " 

"She  is  at  home,"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby, 
sweetly. 

"  What !  at  home !"  cried  the  Baron.  "  And 
does  she  know  I'm  here  ?" 

"  She  does." 

"Then  why  in  thunder  don't  she  come 
down  ?"  cried  the  Baron,  wonderingly. 

"Because  she  is  indisposed." 

"Indisposed?" 

"Yes." 

This  was  the  information  which  Mrs.  Wil 
loughby  had  decided  to  give  to  the  Baron.  Min 
nie  had  stipulated  that  his  feelings  should  not 
be  hurt ;  and  this  seemed  to  her  to  be  the  easi 
est  mode  of  dealing  with  him. 

"  Indisposed!"  cried  the  Baron. 

"Yes." 

"  Oh  dear !  Oh,  I  hope,  ma'am — I  do  hope, 
ma'am,  that  she  ain't  very  bad.  Is  it  any  thing 
serious — or  what  ?" 

"  Not  very  serious ;  she  has  to  keep  her  room, 
though." 

"  She  ain't  sick  abed,  I  hope  ?" 

"  Oh  no — not  so  bad  as  that !" 

"  Oh  dear !  it's  all  me,  I  know.  I'm  to 
blame.  She  made  this  journey — the  poor  lit 
tle  pet ! — just  to  see  me ;  and  the  fatigue  and 
the  excitement  have  all  been  too  much.  Oh,  I 
might  have  known  it !  Oh,  I  remember  now 
how  pale  she  looked  yesterday !  Oh  dear ! 
what  '11 1  do  if  any  thing  happens  to  her  ?  Oh, 
do  tell  me — is  she  better  ? — did  she  pass  a  good 
night  ? — does  she  suffer  any  pain  ? — can  I  do 
any  thing  for  her  ? — will  you  take  a  little  mes 
sage  from  me  to  her  ?" 

"  She  is  quite  easy  now,  thanks,"  said  Mrs. 
Willoughby ;  "  but  we  have  to  keep  her  per 
fectly  quiet;  the  slightest  excitement  may  be 
dangerous." 

Meanwhile  the  Reverend  Saul  had  become 
wearied  with  sitting  dumb,  and  began  to  look 
around  for  some  suitable  means  of  taking  part 
in  the  conversation.  As  the  Baron  had  intro 
duced  him  to  society,  he  felt  that  it  was  his 
duty  to  take  some  part  so  as  to  assert  himself 
both  as  a  man,  a  scholar,  and  a  clergyman. 
So,  as  he  found  the  Baron  was  monopolizing 
Mrs.  Willoughby,  he  gradually  edged  over  till 
he  came  within  ear-shot  of  Lady  Dalrymple, 
and  then  began  to  work  his  way  toward  a  con 
versation. 

"This,  ma'am,"  he  began,  "is  truly  an  in 
teresting-spot." 

Lady  Dalrymple  bowed. 

"  Yes,  ma'am.  "I've  been  for  the  past  few 
days  surveying  the  ruins  of  antiquity.  It  is 
truly  a  soul-stirring  spectacle." 

"  So  I  have  heard,"  remarked  Lady  Dalrym 
ple,  cheerfully. 

"  Every  thing  around  us,  ma'am,"  continued 
the  Reverend  Saul,  in  a  dismal  voice,  "  is  sub 
ject  to  dissolution,  or  is  actually  dissolving. 
How  forcible  air  the  words  of  the  Psalmist : 
'  Our  days  air  as  the  grass,  or  like  the  morn- 


66 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


ing  flower ;  when  blasting  winds  sweep  o'er  the 
vale,  they  wither  in  an  hour.'  Yes,  ma'am,  I 
have  this  week  stood  in  the  Roman  Forum. 
The  Coliseum,  also,  ma'am,  is  a  wonderful 
place.  It  was  built  by  the  Flavian  emperors, 
and  when  completed  could  hold  eighty  thousand 
spectators  seated,  with  about  twenty  thousand 
standing.  In  hot  weather  these  spectators 
were  protected  from  the  rays  of  the  sun  by 
means  of  awnings.  It  is  a  mighty  fabric, 
ma'am !" 

"  I  should  think  so,"  said  Lady  Dalrymple. 

"The  arch  of  Titus,  ma'am,  is  a  fine  ruin. 
It  was  originally  built  by  the  emperor  of  that 
name  to  commemorate  the  conquest  of  Jerusa 
lem.  The  arch  of  Septimius  Severus  was  built 
by  the  Emperor  of  that  name,  and  the  arch  of 
Constantine  was  built  by  the  emperor  of  that 
name.  They  are  all  very  remarkable  struc 
tures.  " 

"I'm  charmed  to  hear  you  say  so." 

"  It's  true,  ma'am ;  but  let  me  add,  ma'am, 
that  the  ruins  of  this  ancient  city  do  not  offer 
to  my  eyes  a  spectacle  half  so  melancholy  as 
the  great  moral  ruin  which  is  presented  by  the 
modern  city.  For,  ma'am,  when  I  look  around, 
what  do  I  see  ?  I  behold  the  Babylon  of  the 
Apocalypse !  Pray,  ma'am,  have  you  ever  re 
flected  much  on  that  ?" 

"Not  to  any  great  extent,"  said  Lady  Dal 
rymple,  who  now  began  to  feel  bored,  and 
so  arose  to  her  feet.  The  Reverend  Saul  Tozer 
was  just  getting  on  a  full  head  of  conversational 
steam,  and  was  just  fairly  under  way,  when  this 
sad  and  chilling  occurrence  took  place.  She 
rose  and  bowed  to  the  gentlemen,  and  began  to 
retreat. 

All  this  time  the  Baron  had  been  pouring 
forth  to  Mrs.  Willoughby  his  excited  interroga 
tories  about  Minnie's  health,  and  had  asked  her 
to  take  a  message.  This  Mrs.  Willoughby  re 
fused  at  first. 

"Oh  no!"  said  she;  "it  will  really  disturb 
her  too  much.  What  she  wants  most  is  per 
fect  quiet.  Her  health  is  really  very  delicate, 
and  I  am  excessively  anxious  about  her." 

"  But  does  she — does  she — is  she — can  she 
walk  about  her  own  room?"  stammered  the 
Baron. 

"A  little,"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby.  "Oh,  I 
hope  in  a  few  weeks  she  may  be  able  to  come 
down.  But  the  very  greatest  care  and  quiet  are 
needed,  for  she  is  in  such  a  very  delicate  state 
that  we  watch  her  night  and  day." 

"A  few  weeks!"  echoed  the  Baron,  in  dis 
may.  "Watch  her  night  and  day!" 

"  Oh,  you  know,  it  is  the  only  chance  for  her 
recovery.  She  is  so  delicate." 

The  Baron  looked  at  Mrs.  Willoughby  with 
a  pale  face,  upon  which  there  was  real  suffer 
ing  and  real  misery. 

"  Can't  I  do  something ?"  he  gasped.  "  Won't 
yon  take  a  message  to  her?  It  ought  to  do  her 
good.  Perhaps  she  thinks  I'm  neglecting  her. 
Perhaps  she  thinks  I  ain't  here  enough.  Tell 
her  I'm  ready  to  give  up  my  office,  and  even  | 


my  title  of  nobility,  and  come  and  live  here,  if 
it  '11  be  any  comfort  to  her." 

"  Oh,  really,  Sir,  you  quite  mistake  her,"  said 
Mrs.  Willoughby.  "  It  has  no  reference  to  you 
whatever.  It's  a  nervous  affection,  accompa 
nied  with  general  debility  and  neuralgia." 

"  Oh  no,  you  don't  know  her,"  said  the  Bar 
on,  incredulously.  "  I  know  her.  I  know  what 
it  is.  But  she  walks,  don't  she  ?" 

"Yes,  a  little — just  across  the  room;  still, 
even  that  is  too  much.  She  is  very,  very  weak, 
and  must  be  quite  kept  free  from  excitement. 
Even  the  excitement  of  your  visits  is  bad  for 
her.  Her  pulse  is — is — always — accelerated — 
and — she — I —  Oh,  dear  me !" 

While  Mrs.  Willoughby  had  been  making  up 
this  last  sentence  she  was  startled  by  a  rustling 
on  the  stairs.  It  was  the  rustle  of  a  female's 
dress.  An  awful  thought  occurred  to  her,  which 
distracted  her,  and  confused  her  in  the  middle 
of  her  sentence,  and  made  her  scarce  able  to 
articulate  her  words.  And  as  she  spoke  them 
the  rustle  drew  nearer,  and  she  heard  the  sound 
of  feet  descending  the  stairs,  until  at  last  the 
footsteps  approached  the  door,  and  Mrs.  Wil 
loughby,  to  her  utter  horror,  saw  Minnie  herself. 

Now  as  to  the  Baron,  in  the  course  of  his 
animated  conversation  with  Mrs.  Willoughby, 
and  in  his  excited  entreaties  to  her  to  carry  a 
message  up  to  the  invalid,  he  had  turned  round 
with  his  back  to  the  door.  It  was  about  the 
time  that  Lady  Dalrymple  had  begun  to  beat  a 
retreat.  As  she  advanced  the  Baron  saw  her, 
and,  with  his  usual  politeness,  moved  ever  so 
far  to  one  side,  bowing  low  as  he  did  so.  Lady 
Dalrymple  passed,  the  Baron  raised  himself, 
and  as  Mrs.  Willoughby  was  yet  speaking,  and 
had  just  reached  the  exclamation  which  con 
cluded  her  last  remark,  he  was  astounded  by 
the  sudden  appearance  of  Minnie  herself  at  the 
door. 

The  effect  of  this  sudden  appearance  was 
overwhelming.  Mrs.  Willoughby  stood  thun 
der-struck,  and  the  Baron  utterly  bewildered. 
The  latter  recovered  his  faculties  first.  It  was 
just  as  Lady  Dalrymple  was  passing  out.  With 
a  bound  he  sprang  toward  Minnie,  and  caught 
her  in  his  arms,  uttering  a  series  of  inarticulate 
cries. 

"  Oh,  Min !  and  you  did  come  down,  did 
you?  And  you  couldn't  stay  up  there,  could 
you?  I  wanted  to  send  a  message  to  you. 
Poor  little  Min!  you're  so  weak.  Is  it  any 
thing  serious?  Oh,  my  darling  little  Min! 
But  sit  down  on  this  here  seat.  Don't  stand ; 
you're  too  weak.  Why  didn't  you  send,  and 
I'd  have  carried  you  down?  But  tell  me  now, 
honest,  wasn't  it  me  that  brought  this  on? 
Never  mind,  I'll  never  leave  you  again." 

This  is  the  style  which  the  gallant  Baron 
adopted  to  express  his  sentiments  concerning 
Minnie ;  and  the  result  was  that  he  succeeded 
in  giving  utterance  to  words  that  were  quite  as 
incoherent  as  any  that  Minnie  herself,  in  her 
most  rambling  moods,  had  ever  uttered. 

The  Baron  now  gave  himself  up  to  joy.     He 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


67 


took  no  notice  of  any  body.  He  sat  by  Min 
nie's  side  on  a  sofa,  and  openly  held  her  hand. 
The  Reverend  Saul  Tozer  looked  on  with  an 
approving  smile,  and  surveyed  the  scene  like  a 
father.  Mrs.  Willoughby's  soul  was  on  fire 
with  indignation  at  Minnie's  folly  and  the  Bar 
on's  impudence.  She  was  also  indignant  that 
her  little  conventional  falsehoods  had  been  sud 
denly  disproved  by  the  act  of  Minnie  herself. 
Yet  she  did  not  know  what  to  say,  and  so  she 
went  to  a  chair,  and  flung  herself  into  it  in 
fierce  anger. 

As  for  Minnie  herself,  she  had  come  down 
to  the  Baron,  and  appeared  rather  to  enjoy  the 
situation.  She  talked  about  Rome  and  Naples, 
and  asked  him  all  about  himself,  and  the  Baron 
explained  his  whole  situation  down  to  the  mi 
nutest  detail.  She  was  utterly  indifferent  to 
her  sister.  Once  or  twice  the  Baron  made  a 
move  to  go,  but  did  not  succeed.  He  finally 
settled  himself  down  apparently  for  the  rest  of 
the  day;  but  Mrs.  Willoughbyat  last  interposed. 
She  walked  forward.  She  took  Minnie's  hand, 
and  spoke  to  her  in  a  tone  which  she  but  seldom 
used. 

"You  shall  not  stay  here  any  longer!"  she 
cried.  "Come." 

And  Minnie  obeyed  at  once. 

The  Baron  insisted  on  a  tender  adieu.  Mrs. 
Willoughby  stood  by,  with  flashing  eyes  and 
heaving  breast. 

Minnie  followed  her  up  stairs  in  silence. 

"You  silly  child!"  she  cried.  "Are  you 
mad?  What  made  you  come  down?  You 
broke  your  promise !" 

"  Well — well — I  couldn't  help  it,  and  he  is  so 
deliciously  rude ;  and  do  you  know,  Kitty  dear 
est,  I  really  begin  to  feel  quite  fond  of  him." 

"Now  listen,  child.  You  shall  never  see 
him  again." 

"I  don't  see  why  not,"  whimpered  Minnie. 

"And  I'm  going  to  telegraph  to  papa.  I 
wouldn't  have  the  responsibility  of  you  another 
week  for  the  world." 

"Now,  Kitty,  you're  horrid." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 
THE  BARON'S  ASSAULTS. 

ON  the  eventful  afternoon  when  the  Baron 
had  effected  an  entrance  into  the  heart  of  the 
enemy's  country,  another  caller  had  come  there 
— one  equally  intent  and  equally  determined, 
but  not  quite  so  aggressive.  This  was  the 
Count  Girasole.  The  same  answer  was  given 
to  him  which  had  been  given  to  the  Baron,  but 
with  far  different  effect.  The  Baron  had  care 
lessly  brushed  the  slight  obstacle  aside.  To  the 
Count  it  was  an  impenetrable  barrier.  It  was 
a  bitter  disappointment,  too ;  for  he  had  been 
filled  with  the  brightest  hopes  and  expectations 
by  the  reception  with  which  he  had  met  on  his 
last  visit.  That  reception  had  made  him  be 
lieve  that  they  had  changed  their  sentiments 


and  their  attitude  toward  him,  and  that  for  the 
future  he  would  be  received  in  the  same  fashion. 
He  had  determined,  therefore,  to  make  the  most 
of  this  favorable  change,  and  so  he  at  once  re 
peated  his  call.  This  time,  however,  his  hopes 
were  crushed.  What  made  it  worse,  he  had 
seen  the  entrance  of  the  Baron  and  the  Reverend 
Saul,  and  knew  by  this  that  instead  of  being  a 
favored  mortal  in  the  eyes  of  these  ladies,  he 
was  really,  in  their  estimation,  placed  below 
these  comparative  strangers.  By  the  language 
of  Lord  Hawbury  on  his  previous  call,  he  knew 
that  the  acquaintance  of  the  Baron  with  Mrs. 
Willoughby  was  but  recent. 

The  disappointment  of  the  Count  filled  him 
with  rage,  and  revived  all  his  old  feelings  and 
plans  and  projects.  The  Count  was  not  one 
who  could  suffer  in  silence.  He  was  a  crafty, 
wily,  subtle,  scheming  Italian,  whose  fertile 
brain  was  full  of  plans  to  achieve  his  desires, 
and  who  preferred  to  accomplish  his  aims  by  a 
tortuous  path,  rather  than  by  a  straight  one. 
This  repulse  revived  old  projects,  and  he  took 
his  departure  with  several  little  schemes  in  his 
mind,  some  of  which,  at  least,  were  destined  to 
bear  fruit  afterward. 

On  the  following  day  the  Baron  called  once 
more.  The  ladies  in  the  mean  time  had  talked 
over  the  situation,  but  were  unable  to  see  what 
they  were  to  do  with  a  man  who  insisted  on 
forcing  his  way  into  their  house.  Their  treat 
ment  would  have  been  easy  enough  if  it  had 
not  been  for  Minnie.  She  insisted  that  they 
should  not  be  unkind  to  him.  He  had  saved 
her  life,  she  said,  and  she  could  not  treat  him. 
with  rudeness.  Lady  Dalrymple  was  in  despair, 
and  Mrs.  Willoughby  at  her  wit's  end,  while 
Ethel,  to  whom  the  circumstance  was  made 
known,  was  roused  by  it  from  her  sadness,  and 
tried  to  remonstrate  with  Minnie.  All  her  ef 
forts,  however,  were  as  vain  as  those  of  her 
friends.  Minnie  could  not  be  induced  to  take 
any  decided  stand.  She  insisted  on  seeing  him 
whenever  he  called,  on  the  ground  that  it  would 
be  unkind  not  to. 

"And  will  you  insist  on  seeing  Girasole  also?" 
asked  Mrs.  Willoughby. 

"  I  don't  know.  I'm  awfully  sorry  for  him," 
said  Minnie. 

"Well,  then,  Captain  Kirby  will  be  here 
next.  Of  course  you  will  see  him  ?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Minnie,  resignedly. 

"  And  how  long  do  you  think  this  sort  of 
thing  can  go  on?  They'll  meet,  and  blood 
will  he  shed." 

"  Oh  dear !     I'm  afraid  so." 

"  Then  I'm  not  going  to  allow  it.  I've  tele 
graphed  to  papa.  He'll  see  whether  you  are 
going  to  have  your  own  way  or  not." 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  see  what  dear  papa  can 
do." 

"He  won't  let  you  see  those  horrid  men." 

"  He  won't  be  cruel  enough  to  lock  me  up  in 
the  house.  I  do  wish  he  would  come  and  take 
me  away.  I  don't  want  them.  They're  all 
horrid." 


68 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


-UI.N.  IT  8  ME  I 


"  This  last  one — this  Gunn — is  the  most  ter 
rible  man  I  ever  saw." 

"  Oh,  Kitty  dearest !  How  can  you  say  so  ? 
Why,  his  rudeness  and  violence  are  perfectly 
irresistible.  He's  charming.  He  bullies  one 
so  deliciously." 

Mrs.  Willoughby  at  this  turned  away  in  de 
spair. 

Minnie's  very  peculiar  situation  was  certainly 
one  which  required  a  speedy  change.  The 
forced  entrance  of  the  Baron  had  thrown  con 
sternation  into  the  family.  Ethel  herself  had 
been  roused,  and  took  a  part  in  the  debate. 
She  began  to  see  Minnie  in  a  new  light,  and 
Hawbury's  attention  to  her  began  to  assume 
the  appearance  of  a  very  mournful  joke.  To 
her  mind  Minnie  was  now  the  subject  of  despe 
rate  attention  from  five  men. 

Thus : 

1.  Lord  Hawbnry. 

2.  Count  Girasole. 

3.  Scone  Dacres. 

4.  Baron  Atramonte. 

5.  Captain  Kirby,  of  whom  Mrs.  Willoughby 
had  just  told  her. 


And  of  these,  four 
had  saved  her  life, 
and  consequently  had 
the  strongest  possible 
claims  on  her. 

And  the  only  sat 
isfaction  which  Ethel 
could  gain  out  of  this 
was  the  thought  that 
Hawbury,  at  least, 
had  not  saved  Min 
nie's  life. 

And  now  to  pro 
ceed. 

The  Baron  called, 
as  has  been  said,  on 
the  following  day. 
This  time  he  did  not 
bring  the  Reverend 
Saul  with  him.  He 
wished  to  see  Minnie 
alone,  and  felt  the 
presence  of  third  per 
sons  to  be  rather  un 
pleasant. 

On  reaching  the 
place  he  was  told,  as 
before,  that  the  ladies 
were  not  at  home. 

Now  the  Baron  re 
membered  that  on  the 
preceding  day  the 
servant  had  said  the 
same,  while  all  the 
time  the  ladies  were 
home.  He  was  char 
itably  inclined  to  sup 
pose  that  it  was  a  mis 
take,  and  not  a  delib 
erate  lie ;  and,  as  he 
was  in  a  frame  of 

good-will  to  mankind,  he   adopted   this   first 
theory. 

"All  right,  young  man,"  said  he;  "but  as 
you  lied  yesterday — under  a  mistake — I  prefer 
seeing  for  myself  to-day." 

So  the  Baron  brushed  by  the  servant,  and 
went  in.  He  entered  the  room.  No  one  was 
there.  He  waited  a  little  while,. and  thought. 
He  was  too  impatient  to  wait  long.  He  could 
not  trust  these  lying  servants.  So  he  determ 
ined  to  try  for  himself.  Her  room  was  up 
stairs,  somewhere  in  the  story  above. 

So  he  went  out  of  the  room,  and  up  the  stairs, 
until  his  head  was  on  a  level  with  the  floor  of 
the  story  above.     Then  he  called  : 
"  Mm  !" 
No  answer. 

"  MIN  !"  in  a  louder  voice. 
No  answer. 

"MIN!  it's  ME!"  still  louder. 
No  answer. 

"  MIN!"  a  perfect  yell. 
At  this  last  shout  there  was  a  response.    One 
of  the  doors  opened,  and  a  lady  made  her  ap 
pearance,  while  at  two  other  doors  appeared 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


69 


two  maids.  The  lady  was  young  and  beauti 
ful,  and  her  face  was  stern,  and  her  dark  eyes 
looked  indignantly  toward  the  Baron. 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  she  asked,  abruptly ;  "  and 
what  do  you  want  ?" 

"Me?  I'm  the  Baron  Atramonte;  and  I 
want  Min.  Don't  you  know  where  she  is  ?" 

"Who?" 

"Min." 

"Min?"  asked  the  other,  in  amazement. 

"  Yes.  My  Min — Minnie,  you  know.  Min 
nie  Fay." 

At  this  the  lady  looked  at  the  Baron  with 
utter  horror. 

"I  want  her." 

"  She's  not  at  home/'  said  the  lady. 

"Well,  really,  it's  too  bad.  I  must  see  her.' 
Is  she  out?" 

"Yes." 

' '  Really  ?     Honor  bright  now  ?" 

The  lady  retired  and  shut  the  door. 

"Well,  darn  it  all,  you  needn't  be  so  pep 
pery,"  muttered  the  Baron.  "  I  didn't  say  any 
thing.  I  only  asked  a  civil  question.  Out,  hey  ? 
Well,  she  must  be  this  time.  If  she'd  been  in, 
she'd  have  made  her  appearance.  Well,  I'd  best 
go  out  and  hunt  her  up.  They  don't  seem  to 
me  altogether  so  cordial  as  I'd  like  to  have 
them.  They're  just  a  leetle  too  'ristocratic." 

With  these  observations  to  himself,  the  Bar 
on  descended  the  stairs,  and  made  his  way  to 
the  door.  Here  he  threw  an  engaging  smile 
upon  the  servant,  and  made  a  remark  which  set 
the  other  on  the  broad  grin  for  the  remainder 
of  the  day.  After  this  the  Baron  took  his  de 
parture. 

The  Baron  this  time  went  to  some  stables, 
and  reappeared  in  a  short  time  mounted  upon 
a  gallant  steed,  and  careering  down  the  Corso. 
In  due  time  he  reached  the  Piazza  del  Popolo, 
and  then  he  ascended  the  Pincian  Hill.  Here 
he  rode  about  for  some  time,  and  finally  his 
perseverance  was  rewarded.  He  was  looking 
down  from  the  summit  of  the  hill  upon  the  Pi 
azza  below,  when  he  caught  sight  of  a  barouche, 
in  which  were  three  ladies.  One  of  these  sat  on 
the  front  seat,  and  her  white  face  and  short  gold 
en  hair  seemed  to  indicate  to  him  the  one  he 
sought. 

In  an  instant  he  put  spurs  to  his  horse,  and 
rode  down  the  hill  as  quick  as  possible,  to  the 
great  alarm  of  the  crowds  who  were  going  up 
and  down.  In  a  short  time  he  had  caught  up 
with  the  carriage.  He  was  right.  It  was  the 
right  one,  and  Minnie  was  there,  together  with 
Lady  Dalrymple  and  Mrs.  Willoughby.  The 
ladies,  on  learning  of  his  approach,  exhibited  no 
emotion.  They  were  prepared  for  this,  and  re 
signed.  They  had  determined  that  Minnie 
should  have  no  more  interviews  with  him  in 
doors  ;  and  since  they  could  not  imprison  her 
altogether,  they  would  have  to  submit  for  the 
present  to  his  advances.  But  they  were  rapidly 
becoming  desperate. 

Lord  Hawbury  was  riding  by  the  carriage  as 
the  Baron  came  up. 


"  Hallo !"  said  he  to  the  former.  "How  do ? 
and  how  are  you  all  ?  Why,  I've  been  hunting 
all  over  creation.  Well,  Minnie,  how  goes  it  ? 
Feel  lively?  That's  right.  Keep  out  in  the 
open  air.  Take  all  the  exercise  you  can,  and 
eat  as  hard  as  you  can.  You  live  too  quiet  as 
a  general  thing,  and  want  to  knock  around 
more.  But  we'll  fix  all  that,  won't  we,  Min, 
before  a  month  of  Sundays  ?" 

The  advent  of  the  Baron  in  this  manner,  and 
his  familiar  address  to  Minnie,  filled  Hawbury 
with  amazement.  He  had  been  surprised  at 
finding  him  with  the  ladies  on  the  previous  day, 
but  there  was  nothing  in  his  demeanor  which 
was  at  all  remarkable.  Now,  however,  he  no 
ticed  the  very  great  familiarity  of  his  tone  and 
manner  toward  Minnie,  and  was  naturally 
amazed.  The  Baron  had  not  confided  to  him 
his  secret,  and  he  could  not  understand  the 
cause  of  such  intimacy  between  the  representa 
tives  of  such  different  classes.  He  therefore  list 
ened  with  inexpressible  astonishment  to  the  Bar 
on's  language,  and  to  Minnie's  artless  replies. 

Minnie  was  sitting  on  the  front  seat  of  the 
barouche,  and  was  alone  in  that  seat.  As  the 
gentlemen  rode  on  each  side  of  the  carriage 
her  face  was  turned  toward  them.  Hawbury 
rode  back,  so  that  he  was  beside  Lady  Dalrym 
ple  ;  but  the  Baron  rode  forward,  on  the  other 
side,  so  as  to  bring  himself  as  near  to  Minnie 
as  possible.  The  Baron  was  exceedingly  hap 
py.  His  happiness  showed  itself  in  the  flush 
of  his  face,  in  the  glow  of  his  eyes,  and  in  the 
general  exuberance  and  all-embracing  swell  of 
his  manner.  His  voice  was  loud,  his  gestures 
demonstrative,  and  his  remarks  were  addressed 
by  turns  to  each  one  in  the  company.  The 
others  soon  gave  up  the  attempt  to  talk,  and 
left  it  all  to  the  Baron.  Lady  Dalrymple  and 
Mrs.  Willoughby  exchanged  glances  of  despair. 
Hawbury  still  looked  on  in  surprise,  while  Min 
nie  remained  perfectly  calm,  perfectly  self-pos 
sessed,  and  conversed  with  her  usual  simplicity. 

As  the  party  thus  rode  on  they  met  a  horse 
man,  who  threw  a  rapid  glance  over  all  of  them. 
It  was  Girasole.  The  ladies  bowed,  and  Mrs. 
Willoughby  wished  that  he  had  come  a  little 
before,  so  that  he  could  have  taken  the  place 
beside  the  carriage  where  the  Baron  now  was. 
But  the  place  was  now  appropriated,  and  there 
was  no  chance  for  the  Count.  Girasole  threw  a 
dark  look  over  them,  which  rested  more  partic 
ularly  on  Hawbury.  Hawbury  nodded  lightly 
at  the  Count,  and  didn't  appear  to  take  any 
further  notice  of  him.  All  this  took  up  but  a 
few  moments,  and  the  Count  passed  on. 

Shortly  after  they  met  another  horseman. 
He  sat  erect,  pale,  sad,  with  a  solemn,  earnest 
glow  in  his  melancholy  eyes.  Minnie's  back 
was  turned  toward  him,  so  that  she  could  not 
see  his  face,  but  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Mrs. 
Willoughby.  She  looked  back  at  him  and 
bowed,  as  did  also  Lady  Dalrymple.  He  took 
off  his  hat,  and  the  carriage  rolled  past.  Then 
he  turned  and  looked  after  it,  bareheaded,  and 
Minnie  caught  sight  of  him,  and  smiled  and 


70 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


bowed.     And  then  in  a  few  moments  more  the 
crowd  swallowed  up  Scone  Dacres. 

The  Baron  thus  enjoyed  himself  in  a  large, 
exuberant  fashion,  and  monopolized  the  con 
versation  in  a  large,  exuberant  way.  He  out 
did  himself.  He  confided  to  the  ladies  his 
plans  for  the  regeneration  of  the  Roman  Church 
and  the  Roman  State.  He  told  stories  of  his 
adventures  in  the  Rocky  Mountains.  He  men 
tioned  the  state  of  his  finances,  and  his  pros 
pects  for  the  future.  He  was  as  open,  as  free, 
and  as  communicative  as  if  he  had  been  at  home, 
with  fond  sisters  and  admiring  brothers  around 
him.  The  ladies  were  disgusted  at  it  all ;  and 
by  the  ladies  I  mean  only  Mrs.  Willoughby  and 
Lady  Dalrymple.  For  Minnie  was  not — she 
actually  listened  in  delight.  It  was  not  con 
ventional.  Very  well.  Neither  was  the  Bar 
on.  And  for  that  matter,  neither  was  she. 
He  was  a  child  of  nature.  So  was  she.  His 
rudeness,  his  aggressiveness,  his  noise,  his  talk 
ativeness,  his  egotism,  his  confidences  about 
himself — all  these  did  not  make  him  so  very 
disagreeable  to  her  as  to  her  sister  and  aunt. 

So  Minnie  treated  the  Baron  with  the  utmost 
complaisance,  and  Hawbury  was  surprised,  and 
Mrs.  Willoughby  and  Lady  Dalrymple  were  dis 
gusted  ;  but  the  Baron  was  delighted,  and  his 
soul  was  filled  with  perfect  joy.  Too  soon  for 
.him  was  this  drive  over.  But  the  end  came,  and 
they  reached  the  hoteL  Hawbury  left  them,  but 
the  Baron  lingered.  The  spot  was  too  sweet,  the 
charm  too  dear — he  could  not  tear  himself  away. 

In  fact,  he  actually  followed  the  ladies  into 
the  house. 

"I  think  111  just  make  myself  comfortable 
in  here,  Min,  till  you  come  down,"  said  the 
Baron.  And  with  these  words  he  walked  into 
the  reception-room,  where  he  selected  a  place 
on  a  sofa,  and  composed  himself  to  wait  pa 
tiently  for  Minnie  to  come  down. 

So  he  waited,  and  waited,  and  waited — but 
Minnie  did  not  come.  At  last  he  grew  impa 
tient.  He  walked  out,  and  up  the  stairs,  and 
listened. 

He  heard  ladies'  voices. 

He  spoke. 

"Min!" 

No  answer. 

"MIN!"  louder. 

No  answer. 

«  MIN !     H  ALLO-0-O-O ! " 

No  answer. 

"  MIN!"  a  perfect  shout. 

At  this  a  door  was  opened  violently,  and 
Mrs.  Willoughby  walked  out.  Her  cheeks 
were  flushed,  and  her  eyes  glanced  fire. 

"Sir,"  she  said,  "this  is  intolerable!  You 
must  be  intoxicated.  Go  away  at  once,  or  I 
shall  certainly  have  you  turned  out  of  the  house." 

And  saying  this  she  went  back,  shut  the 
door,  and  locked  it. 

The  Baron  was  thunder-struck.  He  had 
never  been  treated  so  in  his  life.  He  was 
cut  to  the  heart.  His  feelings  were  deeply 
wounded. 


"Darn  it!"  he  muttered.  "  What's  all  this 
for?  I  ain't  been  doing  any  thing." 

He  walked  out  very  thoughtfully.  He  couldn't 
understand  it  at  all.  He  was  troubled  for  some 
time.  But  at  last  his  buoyant  spirit  rose  su 
perior  to  this,  temporary  depression.  To-mor 
row  would  explain  all,  he  thought.  Yes,  to 
morrow  would  make  it  all  right.  To-morrow 
he  would  see  Min,  and  get  her  to  tell  him  what 
in  thunder  the  row  was.  She'd  have  to  tell, 
for  he  could  never  find  out.  So  he  made  up 
his  mind  to  keep  his  soul  in  patience. 

That  evening  Hawbury  was  over  at  the  Bar 
on's  quarters,  by  special  invitation,  and  the 
Baron  decided  to  ask  his  advice.  So  in  the 
course  of  the  evening,  while  in  the  full,  easy, 
and  confidential  mood  that  arises  out  of  social 
intercourse,  he  told  Hawbury  his  whole  story — 
beginning  with  the  account  of  his  first  meeting 
with  Minnie,  and  his  rescue  of  her,  and  her  ac 
ceptance  of  him,  down  to  this  very  day,  when 
he  had  been  so  terribly  snubbed  by  Mrs.  Wil 
loughby.  To  all  this  Hawbury  listened  in  amaze 
ment.  It  was  completely  new  to  him.  He  won 
dered  particularly  to  find  another  man  who  had 
saved  the  life  of  this  quiet,  timid  little  girl. 

The  Baron  asked  his  advice,  but  Hawbury 
declined  giving  any.  He  said  he  couldn't  ad 
vise  any  man  in  a  love-affair.  Every  man  must 
trust  to  himself.  No  one's  advice  could  be  of 
any  avail.  Hawbury,  in  fact,  was  puzzled,  but 
he  said  the  best  he  could.  The  Baron  himself 
was  fully  of  Hawbury's  opinion.  He  swore  that 
it  was  truth,  and  declared  the  man  that  followed 
another's  advice  in  a  love-affair  was  a  "  darned 
fool  that  didn't  deserve  to  win  his  gal." 

There  followed  a  general  conversation  on 
things  of  a  different  kind.  The  Baron  again 
discoursed  on  church  and  state.  He  then  ex 
hibited  some  curiosities.  Among  other  things 
a  skull.  He  used  it  to  hold  his  tobacco.  He 
declared  that  it  was  the  skull  of  an  ancient 
Roman.  On  the  inside  was  a  paper  pasted 
there,  on  which  he  had  written  the  following: 

"Oh,  I'm  the  skull  of  a  Roman  bold 

That  fit  in  the  ancient  war; 
From  East  to  West  I  bore  the  flag 
Of  S.  P.  Q.  and  R. 

"In  East  and  West,  and  North  and  South, 

We  made  the  nations  fear  us — 

Both  Nebuchadnezzar  and  Hannibal, 

And  Pharaoh  too,  and  Pyrrhua 

"We  took  their  statutes  from  the  Greeks, 

And  lots  of  manuscripts  too; 
We  set  adrift  on  his  world-wide  tramp 
The  original  wandering  Jew. 

"But  at  last  the  beggarly  Dutchman  came, 

With  his  lager  and  sauerkraut; 
And  wherever  that  beggarly  Dutchman  went 
He  made  a  terrible  rout 

"  Wo  ist  der  Deutscher's  Vaterland  ? 

Is  it  near  the  ocean  wild  ? 
Is  it  where  the  feathery  palm-trees  grow? 
Not  thore,  not  there,  my  child. 

"But  it's  somewhere  down  around  the  Rhine; 

And  now  that  Bismarck's  come, 
Down  goes  Napoleon  to  the  ground, 
And  away  goes  the  Pope  from  Rome!" 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


71 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"HE    SAVED    MY    LIFE." 

"I  CAN'T  bear  this  any  longer!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Willoughby.  "Here  you  are  getting 
into  all  sorts  of  difficulties,  each  one  worse 
than  the  other.  I'm  sure  I  don't  see  why  you 
should.  You're  very  quiet,  Minnie  dearest, 
hut  you  have  more  unpleasant  adventures  than 
any  person  I  ever  heard  of.  You're  run  away 
with  on  horseback,  you're  shipwrecked,  you're 
swept  down  a  precipice  by  an  avalanche,  and 
you  fall  into  the  crater  of  a  burning  volcano. 
Every  time  there  is  some  horrid  man  who  saves 
you,  and  then  proposes.  As  for  you,  you  ac 
cept  them  all  with  equal  readiness,  one  after 
another,  and  what  is  worse,  you  won't  give  any 
of  them  up.  I've  asked  you  explicitly  which 
of  them  you'll  give  up,  and  you  actually  refuse 
to  say.  My  dear  child,  what  are  you  thinking 
of?  You  can't  have  them  all.  You  can't  have 
any  of  them.  None  of  them  are  agreeable  to 
your  family.  They're  horrid.  What  are  you 
going  to  do?  Oh,  how  I  wish  you  had  dear 
mamma  to  take  care  of  you!  But  she  is  in  a 
better  world.  And  here  is  poor  dear  papa  who 
can't  come.  How  shocked  he  would  be  if  he 
knew  all.  What  is  worst,  here  is  that  dread 
ful  American  savage,  who  is  gradually  killing 
me.  He  certainly  will  be  my  death.  What 
am  I  to  do,  dear?  Can't  you  possibly  show  a 
little  sense  yourself — only  a  little,  dear — and 
have  some  consideration  for  your  poor  sister? 
Eve%  Ethel  worries  about  you,  though  she  has 
troubles  of  her  own,  poor  darling ;  and  aunty  is 
really  quite  ill  with  anxiety.  What  are  we  go 
ing  to  do  ?  I  know  one  thing.  I'm  not  going 
to  put  up  with  it.  My  mind  is  made  up.  I'll 
leave  Rome  at  once,  and  go  home  and  tell 
papa." 

"Well,  you  needn't  scold  so,"  said  Minnie. 
"  It's  my  trouble.  I  can't  help  it.  They  would 
come.  I'm  sure  /don't  know  what  to  do." 

"Well,  you  needn't  be  so  awfully  kind  to 
them  all.  That's  what  encourages  them  so. 
It's  no  use  for  me  to  try  to  keep  them  away  if 
you  make  them  all  so  welcome.  Now  there's 
that  dreadful  Italian.  I'm  positive  he's  going 
to  get  up  some  unpleasant  plot.  These  Italians 
are  so  very  revengeful.  And  he  thinks  you're 
so  fond  of  him,  and  I'm  so  opposed.  And  he's 
right,  too.  You  always  act  as  if  you're  fond 
of  him,  and  all  the  rest.  As  to  that  terrible 
American  savage,  I'm  afraid  to  think  of  him ; 
I  positively  am." 

"  Well,  you  needn't  be  so  awfully  unkind  to 
him.  He  saved  my  life." 

"  That's  no  reason  why  he  should  deprive  me 
of  mine,  which  he  will  do  if  he  goes  on  so  much 
longer." 

"You  were  very,  very  rude  to  him,  Kitty," 
said  Minnie,  severely,  "and  very,  very  un 
kind — " 

"I  intended  to  be  so." 

"I  really  felt  like  crying,  and  running  out 
and  explaining  things." 


"I  know  you  did,  and  ran  back  and  locked  the 
door.  Oh,  you  wretched  little  silly  goose,  what 
am  I  ever  to  do  with  such  a  child  as  you  are ! 
You're  really  not  a  bit  better  than  a  baby. " 

This  conversation  took  place  on  the  day  fol 
lowing  the  Baron's  last  eventful  call.  Poor 
Mrs.  Willoughby  was  driven  to  desperation,  and 
lay  awake  all  night,  trying  to  think  of  some 
plan  to  baffle  the  enemy,  but  was  unsuccessful ; 
and  so  she  tried  once  more  to  have  some  influ 
ence  over  Minnie  by  a  remonstrance  as  sharp 
as  she  could  give. 

"  He's  an  American  savage.  I  believe  he's 
an  Indian." 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  see  any  thing  savage  in 
him.  He's  as  gentle  and  as  kind  as  he  can  be. 
And  he's  so  awfully  fond  of  me." 

"Think  how  he  burst  in  here,  forcing  his 
way  in,  and  taking  possession  of  the  house. 
And  then  poor  dear  aunty !  Oh,  how  she  was 
shocked  and  horrified !" 

"  It's  because  he  is  so  awfully  fond  of  me,  and 
was  so  perfectly  crazy  to  see  me." 

"And  then,  just  as  I  was  beginning  to  per 
suade  him  to  go  away  quietly,  to  think  of  you 
coming  down !" 

"Well,  I  couldn't  bear  to  have  him  so  sad, 
when  he  saved  my  life,  and  so  I  just  thought 
I'd  show  myself,  so  as  to  put  him  at  ease. " 

"A  pretty  way  to  show  yourself — to  let  a 
great,  horrid  man  treat  you  so." 

"Well,  that's  what  they  all  do,"  said  Minnie, 
plaintively.  "  I'm  sure  /  can't  help  it." 

"Oh  dear!  was  there  ever  such  a  child! 
Why,  Minnie  darling,  you  must  know  that  such 
things  are  very,  very  ill-bred,  and  very,  very 
indelicate  and  unrefined.  And  then,  think  how 
he  came  forcing  himself  upon  us  when  we  were 
driving.  Couldn't  he  see  that  he  wasn't  want 
ed  ?  No,  he's  a  savage.  And  then,  how  he 
kept  giving  us  all  a  history  of  his  life.  Every 
body  could  hear  him,  and  people  stared  so  that 
it  was  really  quite  shocking." 

"Oh,  that's  because  he  is  so  very,  very  frank. 
He  has  none  of  the  deceit  of  society,  you  know, 
Kitty  darling." 

"Deceit  of  society!  I  should  think  not. 
Only  think  how  he  acted  yesterday — forcing 
his  way  in  and  rushing  up  stairs.  Why,  it's 
actually  quite  frightful.  He's  like  a  madman. 
We  will  have  to  keep  all  the  doors  locked,  and 
send  for  the  police.  Why,  do  you  know,  Ethel 
says  that  he  was  here  before,  running  about 
and  shouting  in  the  same  way :  '  Min ! '  '  Min ! ' 
'  Min ! ' — that's  what  the  horrid  wretch  calls  you 
— 'Min!  it's  me.'  'Come,  Min!'" 

At  this  Minnie  burst  into  a  peal  of  merry, 
musical  laughter,  and  laughed  on  till  the  tears 
came  to  her  eyes.  Her  sister  looked  more  dis 
gusted  than  ever. 

"  He's  such  a  boy,"  said  Minnie ;  "  he's  just 
like  a  boy.  He's  so  awfully  funny.  If  I'm  a 
child,  he's  a  big  boy,  and  the  awfullest,  funniest 
boy  I  ever  saw.  And  then  he's  so  fond  of  me. 
Why,  he  worships  me.  Oh,  it's  awfully  nice." 

' '  A  boy !     A  beast,  you  mean — a  horrid  sav- 


72 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


age.  What  can  I  do  ?  I  must  send  for  a  po 
liceman.  I'll  certainly  have  the  doors  all  locked. 
And  then  we'll  all  be  prisoners.'' 

"Well,  then,  it  '11  all  be  your  own  fault,  for 
/don't  want  to  have  any  doors  locked." 

"Oh  dear!"  sighed  her  sister. 

"Well,  I  don't.  And  I  think  you're  very 
unkind." 

"Why,  you  silly  child,  he'd  come  here  some 
day,  carry  you  off',  and  make  you  marry  him." 

"Well,  I  do  wish  he  would,"  said  Minnie, 
gravely.  "  I  wish  somebody  would,  for  then  it 
would  put  a  stop  to  all  this  worry,  and  I  really 
don't  know  what  else  ever  will.  Do  you,  now, 
Kitty  darling?" 

Mrs.  Willoughby  turned  away  with  a  gesture 
of  despair. 

An  hour  or  two  after  some  letters  were  brought 
in,  one  of  which  was  addressed  to 

Miss  FAT, 

Paste  Restante, 

Roma. 

Minnie  opened  this,  and  looked  over  it  with 
a  troubled  air.  Then  she  spoke  to  her  sister, 
and  they  both  went  off"  to  Minnie's  room. 

"Who  do  you  think  this  is  from  ?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!  Of  course  it's  some 
more  trouble." 

"  It's  from  Captain  Kirby." 

"Oh,  of  course!  And  of  course  he's  here 
in  Borne  ?" 

"No,  he  isn't." 
.      "What!     Not  yet?" 

"  No  ;  but  he  wrote  this  from  London.  He 
has  been  to  the  house,  and  learned  that  we  had 
gone  to  Italy.  He  says  he  has  sent  off  letters 
to  me,  directed  to  every  city  in  Italy,  so  that  I 
may  be  sure  to  get  it.  Isn't  that  good  of  him  ?" 

"Well?"  asked  Mrs.  Willoughby,  repressing 
an  exclamation  of  vexation. 

"  Well,  he  says  that  in  three  days  he  will 
leave,  and  go  first  to  Rome,  as  he  thinks  we 
will  be  most  likely  to  be  there  this  season. 
And  so,  you  see,  he's  coming  on ;  and  he  will 
be  here  in  three  days,  you  know." 

"Minnie,"  said  her  sister,  after  some  mo 
ments'  solemn  thought. 

"Well,  Kitty  darling?" 

"  Do  you  ever  think  ?" 

"I  don't  know." 

' '  Would  you  like  one  of  these  gentlemen  of 
yours  to  blow  one  of  the  others'  brains  out,  or 
stab  him,  or  any  thing  of  that  sort  ?" 

"How  shocking  you  are,  Kitty  dear!  What 
a  dreadful  question !" 

"Well,  understand  me  now.  One  of  them 
will  do  that.  There  will  be  trouble,  and  your 
name  will  be  associated  with  it." 

"  Well,"  said  Minnie,  "I  know  who  won't  be 
shot." 

"Who?" 

"Why,  Rufus  K.  Gunn,"  said  she,  in  the  fun 
ny,  prim  way  in  which  she  always  pronounced 
that  name.  "  If  he  finds  it  out,  he'll  drive  all 
the  others  away." 


"  And  would  you  like  that  ?" 

"  Well,  you  know,  he's  awfully  fond  of  me, 
and  he's  so  like  a  boy :  and  if  I'm  such  a  child, 
I  could  do  better  with  a  man,  you  know,  that's 
like  a  boy,  you  know,  than — than — " 

"  Nonsense !  He's  a  madman,  and  you're  a 
simpleton,  you  little  goose." 

"Well,  then,  we  must  be  well  suited  to  one 
another,"  said  Minnie. 

"Now,  child,  listen,"  said  Mrs.  Willonghby, 
firmly.  "I  intend  to  put  a  stop  to  this.  I 
have  made  up  my  mind  positively  to  leave 
Rome,  and  take  you  home  to  papa.  I'll  tell 
him  all  about  it,  put  you  under  his  care,  and 
have  no  more  responsibility  with  you.  I  think 
he'd  better  send  you  back  to  school.  I've  been 
too  gentle.  You  need  a  firm  hand.  I'll  be 
firm  for  a  few  days,  till  you  can  go  to  papa. 
You  need  not  begin  to  cry.  It's  for  your  own 
good.  If  you're  indulged  any  more,  you'll  sim 
ply  go  to  ruin." 

Mrs.  Willoughby's  tone  was  different  from 
usual,  and  Minnie  was  impressed  by  it.  She 
saw  that  her  sister  was  resolved.  So  she  stole 
up  to  her  and  twined  her  arms  about  her  and 
kissed  her. 

"There,  there,"  said  her  sister,  kissing  her 
again,  "don't  look  so  sad,  Minnie  darling.  It's 
for  your  own  good.  We  must  go  away,  or  else 
you'll  have  another  of  those  dreadful  people. 
You  must  trust  to  me  now,  dearest,  and  not  in 
terfere  with  me  in  any  way. " 

"Well,  well,  you  mustn't  be  unkind  to  poor 
Rufus  K.  Gunn,"  said  Minnie. 

"  Unkind  ?  Why,  we  won't  be  any  thing  to 
him  at  all." 

"And 'am  I  never  to — to — see  him  again?" 

"No!"  said  her  sister,  firmly. 

Minnie  started,  and  looked  at  Mrs.  Willough 
by,  and  saw  in  her  face  a  fixed  resolution. 

"No,  never!"  repeated  Mrs.  Willoughby. 
"  I  am  going  to  take  you  back  to  England.  I'm 
afraid  to  take  any  railroad  or  steamboat.  I'll 
hire  a  carriage,  and  we'll  all  go  in  a  quiet  way 
to  Florence.  Then  we  can  take  the  railroad 
to  Leghorn,  and  go  home  by  the  way  of  Mar 
seilles.  No  one  will  know  that  we've  gone 
away.  They'll  think  we  have  gone  on  an  ex 
cursion.  Now  we'll  go  out  driving  this  morn 
ing,  and  this  afternoon  we  must  keep  the  outer 
door  locked,  and  not  let  any  one  in.  I  suppose 
there  is  no  danger  of  meeting  him  in  the  morn 
ing.  He  must  be  on  duty  then." 

"  But  mayn't  I  see  him  at  all  before  we  go  ?" 

"No!" 

"Just  once — only  once?" 

"No,  not  once.  You've  seen  that  horrid 
man  for  the  last  time." 

Minnie  again  looked  at  her  sister,  and  again 
read  her  resolution  in  her  face.  She  turned 
away,  her  head  dropped,  a  sob  escaped  from 
her,  and  then  she  burst  into  tears. 

Mrs.  Willoughby  left  the  room. 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


73 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

JEALOUSY. 

LORD  HAWBURY  had  come  to  Rome  for  the 
sole  purpose  of  watching  over  his  friend  Scone 
Dacres.  But  he  had  not  found  it  so  easy  to 
do  so.  His  friend  kept  by  himself  more  than 
he  used  to,  and  for  several  days  Hawbury  had 
seen  nothing  of  him.  Once  while  with  the  la 
dies  he  had  met  him,  and  noticed  the  sadness 
and  the  gloom  of  his  brow.  He  saw  by  this 
that  he  was  still  a  prey  to  those  feelings  the 
exhibition  of  which  had  alarmed  him  at  Naples, 
and  made  him  resolve  to  accompany  him  here. 

A  few  days  afterward,  while  Hawbury  was 
in  his  room,  his  friend  entered.  Hawbury  arose 
and  greeted  him  with  unfeigned  joy. 

"Well,  old  man,"  he  said,  "you've  kept 
yourself  close,  too.  What  have  you  been  do 
ing  with  yourself?  I've  only  had  one  glimpse 
of  you  for  an  age.  Doing  Rome,  hey  ?  An 
tiquities,  arts,  churches,  palaces,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing,  I  suppose.  Come  now,  old  boy,  sit 
down  and  give  an  account  of  yourself.  Have  a 
weed  ?  Here's  Bass  in  prime  order.  Light  up, 
my  dear  fellow,  and  let  me  look  at  you  as  you 
compose  your  manly  form  for  a  friendly  smoke. 
And  don't  speak  till  you  feel  inclined.'' 

Dacres  took  his  seat  with  a  melancholy  smile, 
and  selecting  a  cigar,  lighted  it,  and  smoked  in 
silence  for  some  time. 

"Who  was  that  Zouave  fellow?"  he  asked 
at  length :  "  the  fellow  that  I  saw  riding  by 
the  carriage  the  other  day  ?" 

"  That — oh,  an  old  friend  of  mine.  He's  an 
American  named  Gunn.  He's  joined  the  Papal 
Zouaves  from  some  whim,  and  a  deuced  good 
thing  it  is  for  them  to  get  hold  of  such  a  man. 
I  happened  to  call  one  day,  and  found  him  with 
the  ladies." 

"  The  ladies — ah!"  and  Dacres's  eyes  lighted 
up  with  a  bad,  hard  light.  "I  suppose  he's 
another  of  those  precious  cavaliers — -the  scum 
of  all  lands — that  dance  attendance  on  my 
charming  wife." 

"Oh,  see  here  now,  my  dear  fellow,  really 
now,"  said  Hawbury,  "  none  of  that,  you  know. 
This  fellow  is  a  friend  of  mine,  and  one  of  the 
best  fellows  I  ever  saw.  You'd  like  him,  old 
chap.  He'd  suit  you." 

"  Yes,  and  suit  my  wife  better,"  said  Dacres, 
bitterly. 

"Oh,  come  now,  really,  my  dear  boy,  you're 
completely  out.  He  don't  know  your  wife  at 
all.  It's  the  other  one,  you  know.  Don't  be 
jealous,  now,  if  I  tell  you." 

"Jealous !" 

"  Yes.  I  know  your  weakness,  yon  know  ; 
but  this  is  an  old  aft'air.  I  don't  want  to  vio 
late  confidence,  but — " 

Dacres  looked  hard  at  his  friend  and  breathed 
heavily.  He  was  evidently  much  excited. 

"  But  what  ?"  he  said,  hoarsely. 

"  Well,  you  know,  it's  an  old  affair.  It's  the 
young  one,  you  know — Miss  Fay.  He  rather 
affects  her,  you  know.  That's  about  it." 


"Miss  Fay?" 

"  Yes ;  your  child-angel,  you  know.  But  it's 
an  older  affair  than  yours ;  it  is,  really ;  so  don't 
be  giving  way,  man.  Besides,  his  claims  on  her 
are  as  great  as  yours;  yes,  greater  too.  By 
Jove ! " 

"  Miss  Fay !  Oh,  is  that  all  ?"  said  Dacres, 
who,  with  a  sigh  of  infinite  relief,  shook  off  all 
his  late  excitement,  and  became  cool  once 
more. 

Hawbury  noted  this  very  thoughtfully. 

"You  see,"  said  Dacres,  "that  terrible  wife 
of  mine  is  so  cursedly  beautiful  and  fascinating, 
and  so  infernally  fond  of  admiration,  that  she 
keeps  no  end  of  fellows  tagging  at  her  heels. 
And  so  I  didn't  know  but  that  this  was  some 
new  admirer.  Oh,  she's  a  deep  one !  Her  new 
style,  which  she  has  been  cultivating  for  ten 
years,  has  made  her  look  like  an  angel  of  light. 
Why,  there's  the  very  light  of  heaven  in  her 
eyes,  and  in  her  face  there  is  nothing,  I  swear, 
but  gentleness  and  purity  and  peace.  Oh,  had 
she  but  been  what  she  now  seems  !  Oh,  if  even 
now  I  could  but  believe  this,  I  would  even  now 
fling  my  memories  to  the  winds,  and  I'd  lie 
down  in  the  dust  and  let  her  trample  on  me,  if 
she  would  only  give  me  that  tender  and  gentle 
love  that  now  lurks  in  her  face.  Good  Heav 
ens  !  can  such  a  change  be  possible  ?  No  ;  it's 
impossible !  It  can't  be !  Don't  I  know  her  ? 
Can't  I  remember  her?  Is  my  memory  all  a 
dream?  No,  it's  real;  and  it's  marked  deep 
by  this  scar  that  I  wear.  Never  till  that  scar 
is  obliterated  can  that  woman  change." 

Dacres  had  been  speaking,  as  he  often  did 
now,  half  to  himself;  and  as  he  ended  he  rubbed 
his  hand  over  the  place  where  the  scar  lay,  as 
though  to  soothe  the  inflammation  that  arose 
from  the  rush  of  angry  blood  to  his  head. 

"  Well,  dear  boy,  I  can  only  say  I  wish  from 
my  heart  that  her  nature  was  like  her  face. 
She's  no  favorite  of  mine,  for  your  story  has 
made  me  look  on  her  with  your  eyes,  and  I 
never  have  spoken  to  her  except  in  the  most 
distant  way ;  but  I  must  say  I  think  her  face 
has  in  it  a  good  deal  of  that  gentleness  which 
you  mention.  Miss  Fay  treats  her  quite  like 
an  elder  sister,  and  is  deuced  fond  of  her,  too. 
I  can  see  that.  So  she  can't  be  very  fiendish 
to  her.  Like  loves  like,  you  know,  and  the  one 
that  the  child-angel  loves  ought  to  be  a  little 
of  an  angel  herself,  oughtn't  she  ?" 

Dacres  was  silent  for  a  long  time. 

"There's  that  confounded  Italian,"  said  he, 
"dangling  forever  at  her  heels — the  devil  that 
saved  her  life.  He  must  be  her  accepted  lover, 
you  know.  He  goes  out  riding  beside  the  car 
riage." 

"Well,  really,  my  dear  fellow,  she  doesn't 
seem  overjoyed  by  his  attentions." 

"  Oh,  that's  her  art.  She's  so  infernally 
deep.  Do  you  think  she'd  let  the  world  see 
her  feelings  ?  Never.  Slimy,  Sir,  and  cold 
and  subtle  and  venomous  and  treacherous — a 
beautiful  serpent.  Aha !  isn't  that  the  way  to 
hit  her  off?  Yes,  a  beautiful,  malignant,  ven- 


74 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


omous  serpent,  with  fascination  in  her  eyes,  and 
death  and  anguish  in  her  bite.  But  she  shall 
find  out  yet  that  others  are  not  without  power. 
Confound  her!" 

"  Well,  now,  by  Jove !  old  boy,  I  think  the 
very  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  go  away  some 
where,  and  get  rid  of  these  troubles." 

"  Go  away !  Can  1  go  away  from  my  own 
thoughts  ?  Hawbury,  the  trouble  is  in  my  own 
heart.  I  must  keep  near  her.  There's  that 
Italian  devil.  He  shall  not  have  her.  I'll 
watch  them,  as  I  have  watched  them,  till  I  find 
a  chance  for  revenge." 

"You  have  watched  them,  then?"  asked 
Hawbury,  in  great  surprise. 

"Yes,  both  of  them.  I've  seen  the  Ital 
ian  prowling  about  where  she  lives.  I've  seen 
her  on  her  balcony,  evidently  watching  for 
him." 

"But  have  you  seen  any  thing  more?  This 
is  only  your  fancy." 

"Fancy!  Didn't  I  see  her  herself  stand 
ing  on  the  balcony  looking  down.  I  was  con 
cealed  by  the  shadow  of  a  fountain,  and  she 
couldn't  see  me.  She  turned  her  face,  and  I 
saw  it  in  that  soft,  sweet,  gentle  beauty  which 
she  has  cultivated  so  wonderfully.  I  swear  it 
seemed  like  the  face  of  an  angel,  and  I  could 
have  worshiped  it.  If  she  could  have  seen 
my  face  in  that  thick  shadow  she  would  have 
thought  I  was  an  adorer  of  hers,  like  the  Ital 
ian —  ha,  ha! — instead  of  a  pursuer,  and  an 
enemy." 

"  Well,  111  be  hanged  if  I  can  tell  myself 
which  you  are,  old  boy ;  but,  at  any  rate,  I'm 
glad  to  be  able  to  state  that  your  trouble  will 
soon  be  over." 

"How's  that?" 

"  She's  going  away. " 

"Going  away!" 

"Yes." 

"  She !  going  away !  where  ?" 

"Back  to  England." 

"Back  to  England!  why,  she's  just  come 
here.  What's  that  for  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  only  know  they're  all 
going  home.  Well,  you  know,  holy  week's 
over,  and  there  is  no  object  for  them  to  stay 
longer." 

"Going  away!  going  away!"  replied  Da- 
cres,  slowly.  "Who  told  you?" 

"Miss  Fay." 

"Oh,  I  don't  believe  it." 

"There's  no  doubt  about  it,  my  dear  boy. 
Miss  Fay  told  me  explicitly.  She  said  they 
were  going  in  a  carriage  by  the  way  of  Civita 
Castellana." 

"  What  are  they  going  that  way  for?  What 
nonsense !  I  don't  believe  it. " 

"Oh,  it's  a  fact.  Besides,  they  evidently 
don't  want  it  to  be  known." 

"What's  that?"  asked  Dacres,  eagerly. 

"I  say  the}"  don't  seem  to  want  it  to  be 
known.  Miss  Fay  told  me  in  her  childish  way, 
and  I  saw  that  Mrs.  Willoughby  looked  vexed, 
and  tried  to  stop  her." 


"  Tried  to  stop  her !  Ah!  Who  were  there  ? 
Were  you  calling  ?" 

"Oh  no — it  was  yesterday  morning.  I  was 
riding,  and,  to  my  surprise,  met  them.  They 
were  driving — Mrs.  Willoughby  and  Miss  Fay, 
you  know — so  I  chatted  with  them  a  few  mo 
ments,  or  rather  with  Miss  Fay,  and  hoped  I 
would  see  them  again  soon,  at  some  fete  or 
other,  when  she  told  me  this." 

'And  my  wife  tried  to  stop  her?" 
'Yes." 

'  And  looked  vexed  ?" 
'  Yes." 

'  Then  it  was  some  secret  of  hers.  She  has 
some  reason  for  keeping  dark.  The  other  has 
none.  Aha!  don't  I  understand  her?  She 
wants  to  keep  it  from  me.  She  knows  you're  my 
friend,  and  was  vexed  that  you  should  know. 
Aha!  she  dreads  my  presence.  She  knows 
I'm  on  her  track.  She  wants  to  get  away 
with  her  Italian — away  from  my  sight.  Aha ! 
the  tables  are  turned  at  last.  Aha !  my  lady. 
Now  we'll  see.  Now  take  your  Italian  and  fly, 
and  see  how  far  you  can  get  away  from  me. 
Take  him,  and  see  if  you  can  hold  him.  Aha  .' 
my  angel  face,  my  mild,  soft  eyes  of  love,  but 
devil's  heart — can  not  I  understand  it  all  ?  I 
see  through  it.  I've  watched  you.  Wait  till 
you  see  Scone  Dacres  on  your  track !" 

"  What's  that  ?  You  don't  really  mean  it  ?" 
cried  Hawbury. 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"Will  you  follow  her?" 

"Yes,  I  will." 

"  What  for  ?  For  a  vague  fancy  of  your  jeal 
ous  mind?" 

"  It  isn't  a  fancy ;  it's  a  certainty.  I've  seen 
the  Italian  dogging  her,  dodging  about  her 
house,  and  riding  with  her.  I've  seen  her 
looking  very  much  as  if  she  were  expecting  him 
at  her  balcony.  Is  all  that  nothing  ?  She's  seen 
me,  and  feels  conscience-stricken,  and  longs  to 
get  away  where  she  may  be  free  from  the  ter 
ror  of  my  presence.  But  I'll  track  her.  I'll 
strike  at  her — at  her  heart,  too ;  for  I  will  strike 
through  the  Italian." 

"By  Jove!" 

"I  will,  I  swear!"  cried  Dacres,  gloomily. 

"You're  mad,  Dacres.  You  imagine  all 
this.  You're  like  a  madman  in  a  dream." 

"  It's  no  dream.  I'll  follow  her.  I'll  track 
her." 

"Then,  by  Jove,  you'll  have  to  take  me  with 
you,  old  boy !  I  see  you're  not  fit  to  take  care 
of  yourself.  I'll  have  to  go  and  keep  you  from 
harm." 

"Yon  won't  keep  me  from  harm,  old  chap," 
said  Dacres,  more  gently ;  "  but  I'd  be  glad  if 
you  would  go.  So  come  along." 

"I  will,  by  Jove!" 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


(I   WATCHED   HIM." 


CHAPTER  XX. 
THE  BARON'S  WOES. 

DACRES  was  not  the  only  excited  visitor 
that  Hawbuiy  had  that  day.  Before  its  close 
another  made  his  appearance  in  the  person  of 
the  Baron. 

"Well,  my  noble  friend,"  cried  Hawbury 
— "my  Baron  bold  —  how  goes  it?  But,  by 
Jove  !  what's  the  matter,  my  boy  ?  Your  brow 
deep  scars  of  thunder  have  intrenched,  and 
care  sits  on  your  faded  cheek.  Pour  forth  the 
mournful  tale.  I'll  sympathize." 

"I  swear  it's  too  almighty  bad!"  cried  the 
Baron. 

"What?" 

"The  way  I'm  getting  humbugged." 

"Humbugged!  Who's  been  humbugging 
you  ?" 

"Darn  me  if  I  know;  and  that's  the  worst 
of  it  by  a  thundering  sight." 

"Well,  my  dear  fellow,  if  I  can  help  you, 
you'd  better  let  me  know  what  it's  all  about." 

"Why,  Minnie  ;  that's  the  row.  There  ain't 
another  thing  on  this  green  earth  that  would 
trouble  me  for  five  seconds." 

"  Minnie  ?  Oh !  And  what  has  happened — 
a  lover's  quarrel  ?" 

"Not  a  quarrel.     She's  all  right." 

"What  is  it,  then?" 

"Why,  she's  disappeared." 

"  Disappeared !  What  do  you  mean  by 
that  ?" 

"Darn  me  if  I  know.  I  only  know  this, 
that  they  keep  their  place  bolted  and  barred, 
and  they've  muffled  the  bell,  and  there's  no 
servant  to  be  seen,  and  I  can't  find  out  any 
thing  about  them.  And  it's  too  almighty  bad. 
Now  isn't  it  ?" 


"It's  deuced  odd,  too — queer,  by  Jove!  I 
don't  understand.  Are  you  sure  they're  all 
locked  up?" 

"  Course  I  am." 

"  And  no  servants  ?" 

"Not  a  darned  servant." 

"  Did  you  ask  the  concierge  ?" 

"  Course  I  did ;  and  crossed  his  palm,  too. 
But  he  didn't  give  me  any  satisfaction." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"Why,  he  said  they  were  at  home,  for  they 
had  been  out  in  the  morning,  and  had  got  back 
again.  Well,  after  that  I  went  back  and  near 
ly  knocked  the  door  down.  And  that  was  no 
good ;  I  didn't  get  a  word.  The  concierge 
swore  they  were  in,  and  they  wouldn't  so  much 
as  answer  me.  Now  I  call  that  too  almighty 
hard,  and  I'd  like  to  know  what  in  thunder 
they  all  mean  by  it." 

"By  Jove !  odd,  too." 

"Well,  you  know,  I  thought  after  a  while 
that  it  would  be  all  explained  the  next  day ;  so 
I  went  home  and  waited,  and  came  back  the 
next  afternoon.  I  tried  it  over  again.  Same 
result.  I  spoke  to  the  concierge  again,  and 
he  swore  again  that  they  were  all  in.  They 
had  been  out  in  the  morning,  he  said,  and  look 
ed  well.  They  had  come  home  by  noon,  and 
had  gone  to  their  rooms.  Well,  I  really  did 
start  the  door  that  time,  but  didn't  get  any  an 
swer  for  my  pains." 

"By  Jove!" 

"Well,  I  was  pretty  hard  up,  I  tell  you. 
But  I  wasn't  going  to  give  up.  So  I  staid 
there,  and  began  a  siege.  1  crossed  the  con 
cierge's  palm  again,  and  was  in  and  out  all 
night.  Toward  morning  I  took  a  nap  in  his 
chair.  He  thought  it  was  some  government 
business  or  other,  and  assisted  me  all  he  could. 
I  didn't  see  any  thing  at  all.  though,  except  an 
infernal  Italian — a  fellow  that  came  calling 
the  first  day  I  was  there,  and  worked  himself 
in  between  me  and  Min.  He  was  prowling 
about  there,  with  another  fellow,  and  stared 
hard  at  me.  I  watched  him,  and  said  noth 
ing,  for  I  wanted  to  find  out  his  little  game. 
He's  up  to  something,  I  swear.  When  he 
saw  I  was  on  the  ground,  though,  he  beat  a 
retreat. 

"Well,  I  staid  all  night,  and  the  next 
morning  watched  again.  I  didn't  knock.  It 
wasn't  a  bit  of  use — not  a  darned  bit. 

"Well,  about  nine  o'clock  the  door  opened, 
and  1  saw  some  one  looking  out  very  cautious 
ly.  In  a  minute  I  was  standing  before  her, 
and  held  out  my  hand  to  shake  hers.  It  was 
the  old  lady.  But  she  didn't  shake  hands. 
She  looked  at  me  quite,  coolly. 

'"Good-morning,  ma'am,'  said  I,  in  quite 
a  winning  voice.  'Good-morning,  ma'am.' 

"  '  Good-morning,'  she  said. 

"  'I  come  to  see  Minnie,'  said  I. 

"  'To  see  Minnie!'  said  she;  and  then  she 
told  me  she  Wasn't  up. 

"  '  Ain't  up  ?'  said  I ;  '  and  it  so  bright  and 
early  !  Why,  what's  got  her?  Well,  you  just 


76 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


go  and  tell  her  I'm  here,  and  I'll  just  step  in 
side  and  wait  till  she  comes  down,'  said  I. 

"But  the  old  lady  didn't  budge. 

"'I'm  not  a  servant,'  she  said,  very  stiff; 
'  I'm  her  aunt,  and  her  guardian,  and  I  allow 
no  messages  to  pass  between  her  and  strange 
gentlemen.' 

"'Strange  gentlemen!'  I  cried.  'Why, 
ain't  I  engaged  to  her  ?' 

"  'I  don't  know  you,'  says  she. 

"  '  Wasn't  I  introduced  to  you  ?'  says  I. 

"  'No,'  says  she ;  'I  don't  know  you.' 


Let  me  inform  you,  Sir,  that  if  you  repeat  it, 
you  will  be  handed  over  to  the  police.  The 
police  would  certainly  have  been  called  yester 
day  had  we  not  wished  to  avoid  hurting  your 
feelings.  We  now  find  that  you  have  no  feel 
ings  to  hurt.' 

"'Very  well,  ma'am,'  says  I;  'these  are 
your  views;  but  as  you  are  not  Minnie,  I  don't 
accept  them.  I  won't  retire  from  the  field  till 
I  hear  a  command  to  that  effect  from  Minnie 
herself.  I  allow  no  relatives  to  stand  between 
me  and  my  love.  Show  me  Minnie,  and  let  me 


BUT  I   SAVED   JIEE   LITE. 


"  'But  I'm  engaged  to  Minnie,'  says  I. 

"  'I  don't  recognize  you,'  says  she.  'The 
family  know  nothing  about  you ;  and  my  niece 
is  a  silly  girl,  who  is  going  back  to  her  father, 
who  will  probably  send  her  to  school.' 

"  '  But  I  saved  her  life,'  says  I. 

"'That's  very  possible,'  says  she;  'many 
persons  have  done  so;  yet  that  gives  you  no 
right  to  annoy  her ;  and  you  shall  not  annoy 
her.  Your  engagement  is  an  absurdity.  The 
child  herself  is  an  absurdity.  You  are  an  ab 
surdity.  Was  it  not  you  who  was  creating 
such  a  frightful  disturbance  here  yesterday? 


hear  what  she  has  to  say.  That's  all  I  ask, 
and  that's  fair  and  square.' 

"  'You  shall  not  see  her  at  all,'  says  the  old 
lady,  quite  mild  ;  '  not  at  all.  You  must  not 
come  again,  for  you  will  not  be  admitted.  Po 
lice  will  be  here  to  put  yon  out  if  you  attempt 
to  force  an  entrance  as  you  did  before. ' 

"  'Force  an  entrance !'  I  cried. 

"  'Yes,'  she  said,  'force  an  entrance.  You 
did  so,  and  you  filled  the  whole  house  with 
your  snouts.  Is  that  to  be  borne  ?  Not  by  us, 
Sir.  And  now  go,  and  don't  disturb  us  any 
more.' 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


77 


"  Well,  I'll  be  darned  if  I  ever  felt  so  cut  up 
in  my  life.  The  old  lady  was  perfectly  calm 
and  cool ;  wasn't  a  bit  scared — though  there 
was  no  reason  why  she  should  be.  She  just 
gave  it  to  me  that  way.  But  when  she  ac 
cused  me  of  forcing  an  entrance  and  kicking 
up  a  row,  I  was  struck  all  of  a  heap  and 
couldn't  say  a  word.  Me  force  an  entrance ! 
Me  kick  up  a  row !  And  in  Minnie's  house  ! 
Why,  the  old  woman's  mad! 

"  Well,  the  old  lady  shut  the  door  in  my 
face,  and  I  walked  off;  and  I've  been  ever 
since  trying  to  understand  it,  but  I'll  be  darned 
if  I  can  make  head  or  tail  of  it.  The  only 
thing  I  see  is  that  they're  all  keeping  Minnie 
locked  up  away  from  me.  They  don't  like  me, 
though  why  they  don't  I  can't  see ;  for  I'm  as 
good  as  any  body,  and  I've  been  particular 
about  being  civil  to  all  of  them.  Still  they 
don't  like  me,  and  they  see  that  Minnie  does, 
and  they're  trying  to  break  up  the  engagement. 
But  by  the  living  jingo!"  and  the  Baron 
clinched  a  good-sized  and  very  sinewy  fist, 
which  he  brought  down  hard  on  the  table — "  by 
the  living  jingo,  they'll  find  they  can't  come  it 
over  me  !  No,.  Sir  !" 

"  Is  she  fond  of  you — Miss  Fay,  I  mean  ?" 

"Fond!     Course  she  is.     She  dotes  on  me." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"Sure!  As  sure  as  I  am  of  my  own  ex 
istence.  Why,  the  way  she  looks  at  me  is 
enough !  She  has  a  look  of  helpless  trust,  an 
innocent  confidence,  a  tender,  child-like  faith 
and  love,  and  a  beseeching,  pleading,  implor 
ing  way  that  tells  me  she  is  mine  through  and 
through." 

Hawbury  was  a  little  surprised.  He  thought 
he  had  heard  something  like  that  before. 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  he,  "  that's  the  chief  thing, 
you  know.  If  you're  sure  of  the  girl's  affec 
tions,  the  battle's  half  won." 

' '  Half  won !     Ain't  it  all  won  ?" 

"  Well,  not  exactly.  You  see,  with  us  En 
glish,  there  are  ever  so  many  considerations." 

"  But  with  us  Americans  there  is  only  one 
consideration,  and  that  is,  Do  you  love  me? 
Still,  if  her  relatives  are  particular  about  dol 
lars,  I  can  foot  up  as  many  thousands  as  her 
old  man,  I  dare  say ;  and  then,  if  they  care  for 
rank,  why,  I'm  a  Baron !" 

"And  what's  more,  old  boy,"  said  Hawbury, 
earnestly,  "  if  they  wanted  a  valiant,  stout,  true, 
honest,  loyal  soul,  they  needn't  go  further  than 
Rnfus  K.  Gunn,  Baron  de  Atramonte." 

The  Baron's  face  flushed. 

"Hawbury,"  said  he,  "that's  good  in  you. 
We've  tried  one  another,  haven't  we  ?  You're 
a  brick !  And  I  don't  need  you  to  tell  me  what 
you  think  of  me.  But  if  you  could  get  a  word 
into  the  ear  of  that  cantankerous  old  lady,  and 
just  let  her  know  what  you  know  about  me,  it 
might  move  her.  You  see  you're  after  her 
style,  and  I'm  not ;  and  she  can't  see  any  thing 
but  a  man's  manner,  which,  after  all,  varies  in 
all  countries. .  Now  if  you  could  speak  a  word 
for  me,  Hawbury — " 


"By  Jove!  my  dear  fellow,  I'd  be  glad  to 
do  so — I  swear  I  would ;  but  you  don't  appear 
to  know  that  I  won't  have  the  chance.  They're 
all  going  to  leave  Rome  to-morrow  morning." 

The  Baron  started  as  though  he  had  been  shot. 

"  What !':  he  cried,  hoarsely.  "  What's  that  ? 
Leave  Rome  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  to-morrow  morning?" 

"Yes  ;   Miss  Fay  told  me  herself — " 

"  Miss  Fay  told  you  herself!  By  Heaven ! 
What  do  they  mean  by  that  ?"  And  the  Baron 
sat  trembling  with  excitement. 

"Well,  the  holy  week's  over." 

"Darn  it  all,  that's  got  nothing  to  do  with  it ! 
It's  me !  They're  trying  to  get  her  from  me  ! 
How  are  they  going?  Do  you  know?" 

"  They  are  going  in  a  carriage  by  the  way  of 
Civita  Castellana." 

"In  a  carriage  by  the  way  of  Civita* Castel 
lana  !  Darn  that  old  idiot  of  a  woman !  what's 
she  up  to  now?  If  she's  running  away  from 
me,  she'll  wish  herself  back  before  she  gets  far 
on  that  road.  Why,  there's  an  infernal  nest 
of  brigands  there  that  call  themselves  Garibal- 
dians ;  and,  by  thunder,  the  woman's  crazy ! 
They'll  be  seized  and  held  to  ransom — per 
haps  worse.  Heavens !  I'll  go  mad  !  I'll  run 
and  tell  them.  But  no ;  they  won't  see  me. 
What  '11 1  do  ?  And  Minnie  !  I  can't  give  her 
up.  She  can't  give  me  up.  She's  a  poor,  trem 
bling  little  creature ;  her  whole  life  hangs  on 
mine.  Separation  from  me  would  kill  her. 
Poor  little  girl !  Separation !  By  thunder, 
they  shall  never  separate  us !  What  devil 
makes  the  old  woman  go  by  that  infernal  road  ? 
Brigands  all  the  way  !  But  I'll  go  after  them  : 
I'll  follow  them.  They'll  find  it  almighty  hard 
work  to  keep  her  from  me !  I'll  see  her,  by 
thunder !  and  I'll  get  her  out  of  their  clutches ! 
I  swear  I  will!  I'll  bring  her  back  here  to 
Rome,  and  I'll  get  the  Pope  himself  to  bind  her 
to  me  with  a  knot  that  all  the  old  women  under 
heaven  can  never  loosen!" 

"What!  You're  going?  By  Jove  !  that's 
odd,  for  I'm  going  with  a  friend  on  the  same 
road." 

"Good  again!  Three  cheers!  And  you'll 
see  the  old  woman,  and  speak  a  good  word  for 
me?" 

"If  I  see  her  and  get  a  chance,  I  certainly 
will,  by  Jove!" 


CHAPTER  XXL 

AN    EVENTFUL    JOUKNEY. 

ON  the  day  following  two  carriages  rolled 
out  of  Rome,  and  took  the  road  toward  Flor 
ence  by  the  way  of  Civita  Castellana.  One 
carriage  held  four  ladies ;  the  other  one  was 
occupied  by  four  lady's-maids  and  the  luggage 
of  the  party. 

It  was  early  morning,  and  over  the  wide 
Civmpagna  there  still  hung  mists,  which  were 
dissipated  gradually  as  the  sun  arose.  As  they 


78 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


went  on  the  day  advanced,  and  with  the  de 
parting  mists  there  opened  up  a  wide  view. 
On  either  side  extended  the  desolate  Cam- 
pagna,  over  which  passed  lines  of  ruined  aque 
ducts  on  their  way  from  the  hills  to  the  city. 
Here  and  there  crumbling  ruins  arose  above 
the  plain — some  ancient,  others  medieval,  none 
modern.  Before  them,  in  the  distance,  arose 
the  Apennines,  among  which  were,  here  and 
there,  visible  the  white  outlines  of  some  villa  or 
hamlet. 

For  mile  after  mile  they  drove  on ;  and  the 
drive  soon  proved  very  monotonous.  It  was 
nothing  but  one  long  and  unvarying  plain,  with 
this  only  change,  that  every  mile  brought  them 
nearer  to  the  mountains.  As  the  mountains 
were  their  only  hope,  they  all  looked  forward 
eagerly  to  the  time  when  they  would  arrive 
there  and  wind  along  the  road  among  them. 

Formerly  Mrs.  Willoughby  alone  had  been 
the  confidante  of  Minnie's  secret,  but  the  events 
of  the  past  few  days  had  disclosed  most  of  her 


for  this  imaginary  neglect.  So  she  sought  to 
make  the  journey  as  pleasant  as  possible  by 
cheerful  remarks  and  lively  observations.  None 
of  these  things,  however,  produced  any  effect 
upon  the  attitude  of  Minnie.  She  sat  there,  with 
unalterable  sweetness  and  unvarying  patience, 
just  like  a  holy  martyr,  who  freely  forgave  all 
her  enemies,  and  was  praying  for  those  who 
had  despitefully  used  her. 

The  exciting  events  consequent  upon  the  Bar 
on's  appearance,  and  his  sudden  revelation  in  the 
role  of  Minnie's  lover,  had  exercised  a  strong 
and  varied  effect  upon  all ;  but  upon  one  its 
result  was  wholly  beneficial,  and  this  was  Ethel. 
It  was  so  startling  and  so  unexpected  that  it 
had  roused  her  from  her  gloom,  and  given  her 
something  to  think  of.  The  Baron's  debut  in 
their  parlor  had  been  narrated  to  her  over  and 
over  by  each  of  the  three  who  had  witnessed  it, 
and  each  gave  the  narrative  her  own  coloring. 
Lady  Dalrymple's  account  was  humorous ;  Mrs. 
Willoughby's  indignant ;  Minnie's  sentimental. 


THE   PROCESSION   ACROSS  THE   OAMPAQNA. 


troubles  to  the  other  ladies  also,  at  least  as  far  as 
the  general  outlines  were  concerned.  The  con 
sequence  was,  that  they  all  knew  perfectly  well 
the  reason  why  they  were  traveling  in  this  way, 
and  Minnie  knew  that  they  all  knew  it.  Yet 
this  unpleasant  consciousness  did  not  in  the 
least  interfere  with  the  sweetness  of  her  temper 
and  the  gentleness  of  her  manner.  She  sat  there, 
with  a  meek  smile  and  a  resigned  air,  as  though 
the  only  part  now  left  her  in  life  was  the  pa 
tient  endurance  of  her  unmerited  wrongs.  She 
blamed  no  one ;  she  made  no  complaint ;  yet 
there  was  in  her  attitude  something  so  touch 
ing,  so  clinging,  so  pathetic,  so  forlorn,  and  in 
her  face  something  so  sweet,  so  sad,  so  re 
proachful,  and  so  piteous,  that  she  enforced 
sympathy ;  and  each  one  began  to  have  a  half- 
guilty  fear  that  Minnie  had  been  wronged  by 
her.  Especially  did  Mrs.  Willoughby  feel  this. 
She  feared  that  she  had  neglected  the  artless 
and  simple-minded  child ;  she  feared  that  she 
had  not  been  sufficiently  thoughtful  about  her ; 
and  now  longed  to  do  something  to  make  amends 


Out  of  all  these  Ethel  gained  a  fourth  idea, 
compounded  of  these  three,  which  again  blend 
ed  with  another,  and  an  original  one  of  her  own, 
gained  from  a  personal  observation  of  the  Bar 
on,  whose  appearance  on  the  stairs  and  impa 
tient  summons  for  "Min"  were  very  vividly 
impressed  on  her  memory.  In  addition  to  this 
there  was  the  memory  of  that  day  on  which 
they  endeavored  to  fight  off  the  enemy. 

That  was,  indeed,  a  memorable  day,  and  was 
now  alluded  to  by  them  all  as  the  day  of  the 
siege.  It  was  not  without  difficulty  that  they 
had  withstood  Minnie's  earnest  protestations, 
and  intrenched  themselves.  But  Mrs.  Wil 
loughby  was  obdurate,  and  Minnie's  tears,  which 
flowed  freely,  were  unavailing. 

Then  there  came  the  first  knock  of  the  im 
patient  and  aggressive  visitor,  followed  by  oth 
ers  in  swift  succession,  and  in  ever-increasing 
power.  Every  knock  went  to  Minnie's  heart. 
It  excited  an  unlimited  amount  of  sympathy  for 
the  one  who  had  saved  her  life,  and  was  now 
excluded  from  her  door.  But  as  the  knocks 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


grew  violent  and  imperative,  and  Minnie  grew 
sad  and  pitiful,  the  other  ladies  grew  indignant. 
Lady  Dalrymple  was  on  the  point  of  sending 
oft'  for  the  police,  and  only  Minnie's  frantic  en 
treaties  prevented  this.  At  last  the  door  seemed 
almost  beaten  in,  and  their  feelings  underwent 
a  change.  They  were  convinced  that  he  was 
mad,  or  else  intoxicated.  Of  the  madness  of 
love  they  did  not  think.  Once  convinced  that 
he  was  mad,  they  became  terrified.  The  maids 
all  hid  themselves.  None  of  them  now  would 
venture  out  even  to  call  the  police.  They  ex 
pected  that  the  concierge  would  interpose,  but 
in  vain.  The  concierge  was  bribed. 

After  a  very  eventful  day  night  came.  They 
heard  footsteps  pacing  up  and  down,  and  knew 
that  it  was  their  tormentor.  Minnie's  heart 
again  melted  with  tender  pity  for  the  man 
whose  love  for  her  had  turned  his  head,  and 
she  begged  to  be  allowed  to  speak  to  him.  But 
this  was  not  permitted.  So  she  went  to  bed 
and  fell  asleep.  So,  in  process  of  time,  did  the 
others,  and  the  night  passed  without  any  trou 
ble.  Then  morning  came,  and  there  was  a 
debate  as  to  who  should  confront  the  enemy. 
There  was  no  noise,  but  they  knew  that  he  was 
there.  At  last  Lady  Dalrymple  summoned  up 
her  energies,  and  went  forth  to  do  battle.  The 
result  has  already  been  described  in  the  words 
of  the  bold  Baron  himself. 

But  even  this  great  victory  did  not  reassure 
the  ladies.  Dreading  another  visit,  they  hur 
ried  away  to  a  hotel,  leaving  the  maids  to  follow 
with  the  luggage  as  soon  as  possible.  On  the 
following  morning  they  had  left  the  city. 

Events  so  very  exciting  as  these  had  pro 
duced  a  very  natural  effect  upon  the  mind  of 
Ethel.  They  had  thrown  her  thoughts  out  of 
their  old  groove,  and  fixed  them  in  a  new  one. 
Besides,  the  fact  that  she  was  actually  leaving 
the  man  who  had  caused  her  so  much  sorrow 
was  already  a  partial  relief.  She  had  dreaded 
meeting  him  so  much  that  she  had  been  forced 
to  keep  herself  a  prisoner.  A  deep  grief  still 
remained  in  her  heart ;  but,  at  any  rate,  there 
was  now  some  pleasure  to  be  felt,  if  only  of  a 
superficial  kind. 

As  for  Mrs.  Willoughby,  in  spite  of  her  self- 
reproach  about  her  purely  imaginary  neglect  of 
Minnie,  she  felt  such  an  extraordinary  relief 
that  it  affected  all  her  nature.  The  others 
might  feel  fatigue  from  the  journey.  Not  she. 
She  was  willing  to  continue  the  journey  for  an 
indefinite  period,  so  long  as  she  had  the  sweet 
consciousness  that  she  was  bearing  Minnie  far 
ther  and  farther  away  from  the  grasp  of  "  that 
horrid  man."  The  consequence  was,  that  she 
was  lively,  lovely,  brilliant,  cheerful,  and  alto 
gether  delightful.  She  was  as  tender  to  Min 
nie  as  a  mother  could  be.  She  was  lavish  in 
her  promises  of  what  she  would  do  for  her. 
She  chatted  gayly  with  Ethel  about  a  thousand 
things,  and  was  delighted  to  find  that  Ethel  re 
ciprocated.  She  rallied  Lady  Dalrymple  on 
her  silence,  and  congratulated  her  over  and 
over,  in  spite  of  Minnie's  frowns,  on  the  suc 


cess  of  her  generalship.  And  so  at  last  the 
weary  Campagna  was  traversed,  and  the  two 
carriages  began  to  ascend  among  the  mountains. 

Several  other  travelers  were  passing  over  that 
Campagna  road,  and  in  the  same  direction. 
They  were  not  near  enough  for  their  faces  to 
be  discerned,  but  the  ladies  could  look  back  and 
see  the  signs  of  their  presence.  First  there  was 
a  carriage  with  two  men,  and  about  two  miles 
behind  another  carriage  with  two  other  men ; 
while  behind  these,  again,  there  rode  a  solitary 
horseman,  who  was  gradually  gaining  on  the 
other  travelers. 

Now,  if  it  had  been  possible  for  Mrs.  Wil 
loughby  to  look  back  and  discern  the  faces  of 
the  travelers  who  were  moving  along  the  road 
behind  her,  what  a  sudden  overturn  there  would 
have  been  in  her  feelings,  and  what  a  blight 
would  have  fallen  upon  her  spirits !  But  Mrs. 
Willoughby  remained  in  the  most  blissful  ig 
norance  of  the  persons  of  these  travelers,  and 
so  was  able  to  maintain  the  sunshine  of  her 
soul. 

At  length  there  came  over  that  sunny  soul 
the  first  cloud. 

The  solitary  horseman,  who  had  been  riding 
behind,  had  overtaken  the  different  carriages. 

The  first  carriage  contained  Lord  Hawbury 
and  Scone  Dacres.  As  the  horseman  passed, 
he  recognized  them  with  a  careless  nod  and 
smile. 

Scone  Dacres  grasped  Lord  Hawbury's  arm. 

"Did  you  see  him?"  he  cried.  "The  Ital 
ian  !  I  thought  so !  What  do  you  say  now  ? 
Wasn't  I  right  ?" 

"  By  Jove !"  cried  Lord  Hawbury. 

Whereupon  Dacres  relapsed  into  silence,  sit 
ting  upright,  glaring  after  the  horseman,  cher 
ishing  in  his  gloomy  soul  the  darkest  and  most 
vengeful  thoughts. 

The  horseman  rode  on  further,  and  overtook 
the  next  carriage.  In  this  there  were  two 
men,  one  in  the  uniform  of  the  Papal  Zouaves, 
the  other  in  rusty  black.  He  turned  toward 
these,  and  greeted  them  with  the  same  nod  and 
smile. 

"  Do  you  see  that  man,  parson  ?"  said  the 
Baron  to  his  companion.  "Do  you  recognize 
him?" 

"No." 

"Well,  you  saw  him  at  Minnie's  house.  He 
came  in." 

"No,  he  didn't." 

"Didn't  he?  No.  By  thunder,  it  wasn't 
that  time.  Well,  at  any  rate,  that  man,  I  be 
lieve,  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  row.  It's  my  be 
lief  that  he's  trying  to  cut  me  out,  and  he'll  find 
he's  got  a  hard  row  to  hoe  before  he  succeeds 
in  that  project." 

And  with  these  words  the  Baron  sat  glaring 
after  the  Italian,  with  something  in  his  eye  that 
resembled  faintly  the  fierce  glance  of  Scone 
Dacres. 

The  Italian  rode  on.  A  few  miles  further 
were  the  two  carriages.  Minnie  and  her  sister 
were  sitting  on  the  front  seats,  and  saw  the 


80 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


stranger  as  he  advanced.  He  soon  came  near 
enough  to  be  distinguished,  and  Mrs.  Willough- 
by  recognized  Girasole. 

Her  surprise  was  so  great  that  she  uttered 
an  exclamation  of  terror,  which  startled  the 
other  ladies,  and  made  them  all  look  in  that 
direction. 

"  How  very  odd !"  said  Ethel,  thoughtfully. 

"  And  now  I  suppose  you'll  all  go  and  say 
that  I  brought  him  too,"  said  Minnie.  "That's 
always  the  way  you  do.  You  never  seem  to 
think  that  I  may  be  innocent.  You  always 
blame  me  for  every  little  mite  of  a  thing  that 
may  happen." 

No  one  made  any  remark,  and  there  was  si 
lence  in  the  carriage  as  the  stranger  approached. 
The  ladies  bowed  somewhat  coolly,  except  Min 
nie,  who  threw  upon  him  the  most  imploring 
look  that  could  possibly  be  sent  from  human 
eyes,  and  the  Italian's  impressible  nature  thrill 
ed  before  those  beseeching,  pleading,  earnest, 
unfathomable,  tender,  helpless,  innocent  orbs. 
Removing  his  hat,  he  bowed  low. 

"I  haf  not  been  awara,"  he  said,  politely, 
in  his  broken  English,  "that  youar  ladysippa's 
bin  intend  to  travalla.  Ees  eet  not  subito  in- 
tenzion  ?" 

Mrs.  Willoughby  made  a  polite  response  of 
a  general  character,  the  Italian  paused  a  mo 
ment  to  drink  in  deep  draughts  from  Minnie's 
great  beseeching  eyes  that  were  fixed  upon  his, 
and  then,  with  a  low  bow,  he  passed  on. 

"I  believe  I'm  losing  my  senses,"  said  Mrs. 
Willoughby. 

"  Why,  Kitty  darling  ?"  asked  Minnie. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  I  actually  trem- 
"bled  when  that  man  came  up,  and  I  haven't  got 
over  it  yet." 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  see  why,"  said  Minnie. 
"  You're  always  imagining  things,  though.  Now 
isn't  she,  Ethel  dearest  ?" 

"  Well,  really,  I  don't  see  much  in  the  Count 
to  make  one  tremble.  I  suppose  poor  dear 
Kitty  has  been  too  much  agitated  lately,  and 
it's  her  poor  nerves." 

"  I  have  my  lavender,  Kitty  dear,"  said  Lady 
Dalrymple.  "Won't  you  take  it?  Or  would 
you  prefer  valerian  ?" 

"Thanks,  much,  but  I  do  not  need  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Willoughby.  "I  suppose  it  will  pass  off." 

"I'm  sure  the  poor  Count  never  did  any 
body  any  harm,"  said  Minnie,  plaintively ;  "so 
you  needn't  all  abuse  him  so — unless  you're 
all  angry  at  him  for  saving  my  life.  I  remem 
ber  a  time  when  you  all  thought  very  different 
ly,  and  all  praised  him  up,  no  end." 

"  Really,  Minnie  darling,  I  have  nothing 
against  the  Count,  only  once  he  was  a  little  too 
intrusive ;  but  he  seems  to  have  got  over  that ; 
and  if  he'll  only  be  nice  and  quiet  and  proper, 
I'm  sure  I've  nothing  to  say  against  him." 

They  drove  on  for  some  time,  and  at  length 
reached  Civita  Castellana.  Here  they  drove 
up  to  the  hotel,  and  the  ladies  got  out  and  went 
up  to  their  apartments.  They  had  three  rooms 
up  stairs,  two  of  which  looked  out  into  the  street, 


while  the  third  was  in  the  rear.  At  the  front 
windows  was  a  balcony. 

The  ladies  now  disrobed  themselves,  and 
their  maids  assisted  them  to  perform  the  duties 
of  a  very  simple  toilet.  Mrs.  Willoughby 's  was 
first  finished.  So  she  walked  over  to  the  win 
dow,  and  looked  out  into  the  street. 

It  was  not  a  very  interesting  place,  nor  was 
there  much  to  be  seen ;  but  she  took  a  lazy, 
languid  interest  in  the  sight  which  met  her  eyes. 

There  were  the  two  carriages.  The  horses 
were  being  led  to  water.  Around  the  carriages 
was  a  motley  crowd,  composed  of  the  poor,  the 
maimed,  the  halt,  the  blind,  forming  that  realm 
of  beggars  which  from  immemorial  ages  has 
flourished  in  Italy.  With  these  was  intermin 
gled  a  crowd  of  ducks,  geese,  goats,  pigs,  and 
ill-looking,  mangy,  snarling  curs. 

Upon  these  Mrs.  Willoughby  looked  for  some 
time,  when  at  length  her  ears  were  arrested  by 
the  roll  of  wheels  down  the  street.  A  carriage 
was  approaching,  in  which  there  were  two  trav 
elers.  One  hasty  glance  sufficed,  and  she  turned 
her  attention  once  more  to  the  ducks,  geese, 
goats,  dogs,  and  beggars.  In  a  few  minutes  the 
crowd  was  scattered  by  the  newly-arrived  car 
riage.  It  stopped.  A  man  jumped  out.  For 
a  moment  he  looked  up,  staring  hard  at  the 
windows.  That  moment  was  enough.  Mrs. 
Willoughby  had  recognized  him. 

She  rushed  away  from  the  windows.  Lady 
Dalrymple  and  Ethel  were  in  this  room,  and 
Minnie  in  the  one  beyond.  All  were  startled 
by  Mrs.  Willoughby 's  exclamation,  and  still 
more  by  her  looks. 

"Oh !"  she  cried. 

"What  ?"  cried  they.      "  What  is  it  ?" 

"  He's  there !     He's  there  !" 

"  Who  ?  who  ?"  they  cried,  in  alarm. 

"That  horrid  man!" 

Lady  Dalrymple  and  Ethel  looked  at  one  an 
other  in  utter  horror. 

As  for  Minnie,  she  burst  into  the  room, 
peeped  out  of  the  windows,  saw  "  that  horrid 
man,"  then  ran  back,  then  sat  down,  then 
jumped  up,  and  then  burst  into  a  peal  of 
the  merriest  laughter  that  ever  was  heard  from 
her. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad!  I'm  so  glad!"  she  ex 
claimed.  "Oh,  it's  so  awfully  funny.  Oh,  I'm 
so  glad  !  Oh,  Kitty  darling,  don't,  please  don't, 
look  so  cross.  Oh,  ple-e-e-e-e-e-e-ase  don't, 
Kitty  darling.  You  make  me  laugh  worse.  It's 
so  awfully  funny!" 

But  while  Minnie  laughed  thus,  the  others 
looked  at  each  other  in  still  greater  consterna 
tion,  and  for  some  time  there  was  not  one  of 
them  who  knew  what  to  say. 

But  Lady  Dulrymple  again  threw  herself  in 
the  gap. 

"  You  need  not  feel  at  all  nervous,  my  dears," 
said  she,  gravely.  "  I  do  not  think  that  this 
person  can  give  us  any  trouble.  He  certainly 
can  not  intrude  upon  us  in  these  apartments, 
and  on  the  highway,  you  know,  it  will  be  quite 
as  difficult  for  him  to  hold  any  communication 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


81 


with  us.  So  I  really  don't  see  any  cause  for 
alarm  on  your  part,  nor  do  I  see  why  dear 
Minnie  should  exhibit  such  delight." 

These  words  brought  comfort  to  Ethel  and 
Mrs.  Willoughby.  They  at  once  perceived  their 
truth.  To  force  himself  into  their  presence  in 
a  public  hotel  was,  of  course,  impossible,  even 
for  one  so  reckless  as  he  seemed  to  be ;  and  on 
the  road  he  could  not  trouble  them  in  any  way, 
since  he  would  have  to  drive  before  them  or 
behind  them. 

At  Lady  Dalrymple's  reference  to  herself, 
Minnie  looked  up  with  a  bright  smile. 

"You're  awfully  cross  with  me,  aunty  dar 
ling,"  she  said;  "but  I  forgive  you.  Only  I 
can't  help  laughing,  you  know,  to  see  how 
frightened  you  all  are  at  poor  Rufus  K.  Gunn. 
And,  Kitty  dearest,  oh  how  you  did  run  away 
from  the  window !  It  was  awfully  funny,  you 
know." 

Not  long  after  the  arrival  of  the  Baron  and 
his  friends  another  carriage  drove  up.  None 
of  the  ladies  were  at  the  window,  and  so  they 
did  not  see  the  easy  nonchalance  of  Hawbury 
as  he  lounged  into  the  house,  or  the  stern  face 
of  Scone  Dacres  as  he  strode  before  him. 


"AS   FOE  DAlj* A1EE— POUF  !    1)EKB  18  NONE." 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

ADVICE     REJECTED. 

DURING  dinner  the  ladies  conversed  freely 
about "  that  horrid  man,"  wondering  what  plan 
he  would  adopt  to  try  to  effect  an  entrance 
among  them.  They  were  convinced  that  some 
such  attempt  would  be  made,  and  the  servants 
of  the  inn  who  waited  on  them  were  strictly 
charged  to  see  that  no  one  disturbed  them. 
However,  their  dinner  was  not  iuterruoted  and 
F 


after  it  was  over  they  began  to  think  of  retiring, 
so  as  to  leave  at  an  early  hour  on  the  following 
morning.  Minnie  had  already  taken  her  de 
parture,  and  the  others  were  thinking  of  follow 
ing  her  example,  when  a  knock  came  at  the  door. 

All  started.  One  of  the  maids  went  to  the 
door,  and  found  a  servant  there  who  brought  a 
message  from  the  Baron  Atramonte.  He  wished 
to  speak  to  the  ladies  on  business  of  the  most 
urgent  importance.  At  this  confirmation  of 
their  expectations  the  ladies  looked  at  one  an 
other  with  a  smile  mingled  with  vexation,  and 
Lady  Dalrymple  at  once  sent  word  that  they 
could  not  possibly  see  him. 

But  the  Baron  was  not  to  be  put  off.  In  a 
few  moments  the  servant  came  back  again,  and 
brought  another  message,  of  a  still  more  urgent 
character,  in  which  the  Baron  entreated  them 
to  grant  him  this  interview,  and  assured  them 
that  it  was  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 

"  He's  beginning  to  be  more  and  more  vio 
lent,"  said  Lady  Dalrymple.  "Well,  dears," 
she  added,  resignedly,  "in  my  opinion  it  will 
be  better  to  see  him,  and  have  done  with  him. 
If  we  do  not,  I'm  afraid  he  will  pester  us  fur 
ther.  I  will  see  him.  You  had  better  retire 
to  your  own  apartments. " 

Upon  this  she  sent  down  an  invitation  to  the 
Baron  to  come  up,  and  the  ladies  retreated  to 
their  rooms. 

The  Baron  entered,  and,  as  usual,  offered  to 
shake  hands — an  offer  which,  as  usual,  Lady 
Dalrymple  did  not  accept.  He  then  looked 
earnestly  all  round  the  room,  and  gave  a  sigh. 
He  evidently  had  expected  to  see  Minnie,  and 
was  disappointed.  Lady  Dalrymple  marked 
the  glance,  and  the  expression  which  followed. 

"Well,  ma'am,"  said  he,  as  he  seated  him 
self  near  to  Lady  Dalrymple,  "  I  said  that  the 
business  I  wanted  to  speak  about  was  import 
ant,  and  that  it  was  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 
I  assure  you  that  it  is.  But  before  I  tell  it  I 
want  to  say  something  about  the  row  in  Rome. 
I  have  reason  to  understand  that  I  caused  a  lit 
tle  annoyance  to  you  all.  If  I  did.  I'm  sure  I 
didn't  intend  it.  I'm  sorry.  There !  Let's 
say  no  more  about  it.  'Tain't  often  that  I  say 
I'm  sorry,  but  I  say  so  now.  Conditionally, 
though — that  is,  if  I  reallv  did  annoy  any  body." 

"Well,  Sir?" 

"  Well,  ma'am — about  the  business  I  came 
for.  You  have  made  a  sudden  decision  to  take 
this  journey.  I  want  to  know,  ma'am,  if  you 
made  any  inquiries  about  this  road  before  start 
ing?" 

"  This  road  ?     No,  certainly  not. " 

"I  thought  so,"  said  the  Baron.  "Well, 
ma'am,  I've  reason  to  believe  that  it's  some 
what  unsafe." 

"Unsafe?" 

"Yes ;  particularly  for  ladies." 

"  And  why  ?" 

"Why,  ma'am,  the  country  is  in  a  disordered 
state,  and  near  the  boundary  line  it  swarms 
with  brigands.  They  call  themselves  Garibal- 
dians,  but  between  you  and  me,  ma'am,  they're 


THE  AMERICAN  BAROX. 


neither  more  nor  less  than  robbers.  You  see, 
along  the  boundary  it  is  convenient  for  them 
to  dodge  to  one  side  or  the  other,  and  where 
the  road  runs  there  are  often  crowds  of  them. 
Now  our  papal  government  means  well,  but  it 
ain't  got  power  to  keep  down  these  brigands.  It 
would  like  to,  but  it  can't.  You  see,  the  scum 
of  all  Italy  gather  along  the  borders,  because 
they  know  we  are  weak  ;  and  so  there  it  is. " 

"And  you  think  there  is  danger  on  this 
road  ?"  said  Lady  Dalrymple,  looking  keenly  at 
him. 

"  I  do,  ma'am." 

"  Pray  have  you  heard  of  any  recent  acts  of 
violence  along  the  road  ?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"Then  what  reason  have  you  for  supposing 
that  there  is  any  particular  danger  now?" 

"A  friend  of  mine  told  me  so,  ma'am." 

"  But  do  not  people  use  the  road  ?  Are  not 
carriages  constantly  passing  and  repassing?  Is 
it  likely  that  if  it  were  unsafe  there  would  be  no 
acts  of  violence  ?  Yet  you  say  there  have  been 
none. " 

"Not  of  late,  ma'am." 

"  But  it  is  of  late,  and  of  the  present  time, 
that  we  are  speaking." 

"I  can  only  say,  ma'am,  that  the  road  is  con 
sidered  very  dangerous." 

"  Who  considers  it  so  ?" 

"  If  you  had  made  inquiries  at  Rome,  ma'am, 
you  would  have  found  this  out,  and  never  would 
have  thought  of  this  road." 

"And  you  advise  us  not  to  travel  it?" 

"I  do,  ma'am." 

"  What  would  you  advise  us  to  do  ?" 

"  I  would  advise  you,  ma'am,  most  earnestly, 
to  turn  and  go  back  to  Rome,  and  leave  by  an 
other  route." 

Lady  Dalrymple  looked  at  him,  and  a  slight 
smile  quivered  on  her  lips. 

"  I  see,  ma'am,  that  for  some  reason  or  other 
you  doubt  my  word.  Would  you  put  confi 
dence  in  it  if  another  person  were  to  confirm 
what  I  have  said  ?" 

"  That  depends  entirely  upon  who  the  other 
person  may  be." 

"The  person  I  mean  is  Lord  Hawbury." 

"  Lord  Hawbury  ?  Indeed !"  said  Lady  Dal 
rymple,  in  some  surprise.  "  But  he's  in  Rome." 

"No,  ma'am,  he's  not.  He's  here — in  this 
hotel." 

"In  this  hotel?     Here?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  I'm  sure  I  should  like  to  see  him  very 
much,  and  hear  what  he  says  about  it." 

"  I'll  go  and  get  him,  then,"  said  the  Baron, 
and,  rising  briskly,  he  left  the  room. 

In  a  short  time  he  returned  with  Hawbury. 
Lady  Dalrymple  expressed  surprise  to  see  him, 
and  Hawbury  •explained  that  he  was  travel 
ing  with  a  friend.  Lady  Dalrymple,  of  course, 
thought  this  a  fresh  proof  of  his  infatuation 
about  Minnie,  and  wondered  how  he  could  be 
a  friend  to  a  man  whom  she  considered  as  Min 
nie's  persecutor  and  tormentor. 


The  Baron  at  once  proceeded  to  explain  how 
the  matter  stood,  and  to  ask  Hawbury's  opin 
ion. 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Dalrymple,  "I  should  re 
ally  like  to  know  what  you  think  about  it." 

"Well,  really,"  said  Hawbury,  "I  have  no 
acquaintance  with  the  thing,  you  know.  Never 
been  on  this  road  in  my  life.  But,  at  the  same 
time,  I  can  assure  you  that  this  gentleman  is  a 
particular  friend  of  mine,  and  one  of  the  best 
fellows  I  know.  I'd  stake  my  life  on  his  per 
fect  truth  and  honor.  If  he  says  any  thing,  you 
may  believe  it  because  he  says  it.  If  he  says 
there  are  brigands  on  the  road,  they  must  be 
there." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  Lady  Dalrymple.  "You 
are  right  to  believe  your  friend,  and  I  should 
trust  his  word  also.  But  do  you  not  see  that 
perhaps  he  may  believe  what  he  says,  and  yet 
be  mistaken  ?" 

At  this  the  Baron's  face  fell.  Lord  Haw 
bury's  warm  commendation  of  him  had  excited 
his  hopes,  but  now  Lady  Dalrymple's  answer 
had  destroyed  them. 

"For  my  part,"  she  added,  "I  don't  really 
think  any  of  us  know  much  about  it.  I  wish 
we  could  find  some  citizen  of  the  town,  or  some 
reliable  person,  and  ask  him.  I  wonder  wheth 
er  the  inn-keeper  is  a  trust-worthy  man." 

The  Baron  shook  his  head. 

"  I  wouldn't  trust  one  of  them.  They're  the 
greatest  rascals  in  the  country.  Every  man  of 
them  is  in  league  with  the  Garibaldians  and 
brigands.  This  man  would  advise  you  to  take 
whatever  course  would  benefit  himself  and  his 
friends  most." 

"But  surely  we  might  find  some  one  whose 
opinion  would  be  reliable.  What  do  you  say- 
to  one  of  my  drivers  ?  The  one  that  drove  our 
carriage  looks  like  a  good,  honest  man." 

"  Well,  perhaps  so ;  but  I  wouldn't  trust  one 
of  them.  I  don't  believe  there's  an  honest  vet- 
turino  in  all  Italy." 

Lady  Dalrymple  elevated  her  eyebrows,  and 
threw  at  Hawbury  a  glance  of  despair. 

"He  speaks  English,  too,"  said  Lady  Dal 
rymple. 

"  So  do  some  of  the  worst  rascals  in  the  coun 
try,"  said  the  Baron. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  he  can  be  a  very  bad  ras 
cal.  We  had  better  question  him,  at  any  rate. 
Don't  you  think  so,  Lord  Hawbury  ?" 

"  Well,  yes  ;  I  suppose  it  won't  do  any  harm 
to  have  a  look  at  the  beggar." 

The  driver  alluded  to  was  summoned,  and 
soon  made  his  appearance.  He  was  a  square- 
headed  fellow,  with  a  grizzled  beard,  and  one 
of  those  non-committal  faces  which  may  be  worn 
by  either  an  honest  man  or  a  knave.  Lady  Dal 
rymple  thought  him  the  former;  the  Baron  the 
latter.  The  result  will  show  which  of  these 
was  in  the  right. 

The  driver  spoke  very  fair  English.  He  had 
been  two  or  three  times  over  the  road.  He  had 
not  been  over  it  later  than  two  years  before. 
He  didn't  know  it  was  dangerous.  He  had 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


83 


never  heard  of  brigands  being  here.  He  didn't 
know.  There  was  a  signore  at  the  hotel  who 
might  know.  He  was  traveling  to  Florence 
alone.  He  was  on  horseback. 

As  soon  as  Lady  Dalrymple  heard  this  she 
suspected  that  it  was  Count  Girasole.  She  de 
termined  to  have  his  advice  about  it.  So  she 
sent  a  private  request  to  that  effect. 

It  was  Count  Girasole.  He  entered,  and 
threw  his  usual  smile  around.  He  was  charm 
ed,  in  his  broken  English,  to  be  of  any  service 
to  miladi. 

To  Lady  Dalrymple's  statement  and  ques 
tion  Girasole  listened  attentively.  As  she  con 
cluded  a  faint  smile  passed  over  his  face.  The 
Baron  watched  him  attentively. 

"  I  know  no  brigand  on  dissa  road,"  said  he. 

Lady  Dalrymple  looked  triumphantly  at  the 
others. 

"  I  have  travail  dissa  road  many  time.  No 
dangaire — alia  safe." 

Another  smile  from  Lady  Dalrymple. 

The  Count  Girasole  looked  at  Hawbury  and 
then  at  the  Baron,  with  a  slight  dash  of  mock 
ery  in  his  face. 

"As  for  dangaire,"  he  said — "pouf !  dere  is 
none.  See,  I  go  alone — no  arms,  not  a  knife — 
an'  yet  gold  in  my  porte-monnaie." 

And  he  drew  forth  his  porte-monnaie,  and 
opened  it  so  as  to  exhibit  its  contents. 

A  little  further  conversation  followed.  Gira 
sole  evidently  was  perfectly  familiar  with  the 
road.  The  idea  of  brigands  appeared  to  strike 
him  as  some  exquisite  piece  of  pleasantry.  He 
looked  as  though  it  was  only  his  respect  for  the 
company  which  prevented  him  from  laughing 
outright.  They  had  taken  the  trouble  to  sum 
mon  him  for  that !  And,  besides,  as  the  Count 
suggested,  even  if  a  brigand  did  appear,  there 
would  be  always  travelers  within  hearing. 

Both  Hawbury  and  the  Baron  felt  humilia 
ted,  especially  the  latter ;  and  Girasole  certain 
ly  had  the  best  of  it  on  that  occasion,  whatever 
his  lot  had  been  at  other  times. 

The  Count  withdrew.  The  Baron  followed, 
in  company  with  Hawbury.  He  was  deeply 
dejected.  First  of  all,  he  had  hoped  to  see 
Minnie.  Then  he  hoped  to  frighten  the  party 
back.  As  to  the  brigands,  he  was  in  most  se 
rious  earnest.  All  that  he  said  he  believed. 
He  could  not  understand  the  driver  and  Count 
Girasole.  The  former  he  might  consider  a 
scoundrel ;  but  why  should  Girasole  mislead  ? 
And  yet  he  believed  that  he  was  right.  As  for 
Hawbury,  he  didn't  believe  much  in  the  brig 
ands,  but  he  did  believe  in  his  friend,  and  he 
didn't  think  much  of  Girasole.  He  was  sorry 
for  his  friend,  yet  didn't  know  whether  he  want 
ed  the  party  to  turn  back  or  not.  His  one  trou 
ble  was  Dacres,  who  now  was  watching  the  Ital 
ian  like  a  blood-hound,  who  had  seen  him,  no 
doubt,  go  up  to  the  ladies,  and,  of  course,  would 
suppose  that  Mrs.  Willoughby  had  sent  for  him. 

As  for  the  ladies,  their  excitement  was  great. 
The  doors  were  thin,  and  they  had  heard  every 
word  of  the  conversation.  With  Mrs.  Willough 


by  there  was  but  one  opinion  as  to  the  Baron's 
motive :  she  thought  he  had  come  to  get  a  peep 
at  Minnie,  and  also  to  frighten  them  back  to 
Rome  by  silly  stories.  His  signal  failure  af 
forded  her  great  triumph.  Minnie,  as  usual, 
sympathized  with  him,  but  said  nothing.  As 
for  Ethel,  the  sudden  arrival  of  Lord  Hawbury 
was  overwhelming,  and  brought  a  return  of  all 
her  former  excitement.  The  sound  of  his  voice 
again  vibrated  through  her,  and  at  first  there 
began  to  arise  no  end  of  wild  hopes,  which, 
however,  were  as  quickly  dispelled.  The  ques 
tion  arose,  What  brought  him  there?  There 
seemed  to  her  but  one  answer,  and  that  was  his 
infatuation  for  Minnie.  Yet  to  her,  as  well  as 
to  Lady  Dalrymple,  it  seemed  very  singular  that 
he  should  be  so  warm  a  friend  to  Minnie's  tor 
mentor.  It  was  a  puzzling  thing.  Perhaps  he 
did  not  know  that  the  Baron  was  Minnie's  lover. 
Perhaps  he  thought  that  his  friend  would  give 
her  up,  and  he  could  win  her.  Amidst  these 
thoughts  there  came  a  wild  hope  that  perhaps  he 
did  not  love  Minnie  so  very  much,  after  all.  But 
this  hope  soon  was  dispelled  as  she  recalled  the 
events  of  the  past,  and  reflected  on  his  cool  and 
easy  indifference  to  every  thing  connected  with 
her. 

Such  emotions  as  these  actuated  the  ladies  ; 
and  when  the  guests  had  gone  they  joined  their 
aunt  once  more,  and  deliberated.  Minnie  took 
no  part  in  the  debate,  but  sat  apart,  looking 
like  an  injured  being.  There  was  among  them 
all  the  same  opinion,  and  that  was  that  it  was 
all  a  clumsy  device  of  the  Baron's  to  frighten 
them  back  to  Rome.  Such  being  their  opinion, 
they  did  not  occupy  much  time  in  debating 
about  their  course  on  the  morrow.  The  idea 
of  going  back  did  not  enter  their  heads. 

This  event  gave  a  much  more  agreeable  feel 
ing  to  Mrs.  Willoughby  and  Lady  Dalrymple 
than  they  had  known  since  they  had  been 
aware  that  the  Baron  had  followed  them. 
They  felt  that  they  had  grappled  with  the  diffi 
culty.  They  had  met  the  enemy  and  defeated 
him.  Besides,  the  presence  of  Hawbury  was 
of  itself  a  guarantee  of  peace.  There  could  be 
no  further  danger  of  any  unpleasant  scenes 
while  Hawbury  was  with  him.  Girasole's  pres 
ence,  also,  was  felt  to  be  an  additional  guaran 
tee  of  safety. 

It  was  felt  by  all  to  be  a  remarkable  circum 
stance  that  so  many  men  should  have  followed 
them  on  what  they  had  intended  as  quite  a 
secret  journey.  These  gentlemen  who  follow 
ed  them  were  the  very  ones,  and  the  only  ones, 
from  whom  they  wished  to  conceal  it.  Yet  it 
had  all  been  revealed  to  them,  and  lo !  here 
they  all  were.  Some  debate  arose  as  to  wheth 
er  it  would  not  be  better  to  go  back  to  Rome 
now,  and  defy  the  Baron,  and  leave  by  another 
route.  But  this  debate  was  soon  given  up,  and 
they  looked  forward  to  the  journey  as  one  which 
might  afford  new  and  peculiar  enjoyment. 

On  the  following  morning  they  started  at  an 
early  hour.  Girasole  left  about  half  an  hour 
after  them,  and  passed  them  a  few  miles  along 


84 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


the  road.  The  Baron  and  the  Reverend  Saul 
left  next ;  and  last  of  all  came  Hawbury  and 
Dacres.  The  latter  was,  if  possible,  more 
gloomy  and  vengeful  than  ever.  The  visit  of 
the  Italian  on  the  preceding  evening  was  fully 
believed  by  him  to  be  a  scheme  of  his  wife's. 
Nor  could  any  amount  of  persuasion  or  vehe 
ment  statement  on  Hawbury's  part  in  any  way 
shake  his  belief. 

"No,"  he  would  say,  "you  don't  under 
stand.  Depend  upon  it,  she  got  him  up  there 
to  feast  her  eyes  on  him.  Depend  upon  it,  she 
managed  to  get  some  note  from  him,  and  pass 
one  to  him  in  return.  He  had  only  to  run  it 
under  the  leaf  of  a  table,  or  stick  it  inside  of 
some  book :  no  doubt  they  have  it  all  arranged, 
and  pass  their  infernal  love-letters  backward 
and  forward.  But  I'll  soon  have  a  chance. 
My  time  is  coming.  It's  near,  too.  I'll  have 
my  vengeance ;  and  then  for  all  the  wrongs 
of  all  my  life  that  demon  of  a  woman  shall 
pay  me  dear !" 

To  all  of  which  Hawbury  had  nothing  to  say. 
He  could  say  nothing ;  he  could  do  nothing. 
He  could  only  stand  by  his  friend,  go  with  him, 
and  watch  over  him,  hoping  to  avert  the  crisis 
which  he  dreaded,  or,  if  it  did  come,  to  lessen 
the  danger  of  his  friend. 

The  morning  was  clear  and  beautiful.  The 
road  wound  among  the  hills.  The  party  went 
in  the  order  above  mentioned. 

First,  Girasole,  on  horseback. 

Next,  and  two  miles  at  least  behind,  came 
the  two  carriages  with  the  ladies  and  their 
maids. 

Third,  and  half  a  mile  behind  these,  came 
the  Baron  and  the  Reverend  Saul. 

Last  of  all,  and  half  a  mile  behind  the  Baron, 
came  Hawbury  and  Scone  Dacres. 

These  last  drove  along  at  about  this  distance. 
The  scenery  around  grew  grander,  and  the 
mountains  higher.  The  road  was  smooth  and 
well  constructed,  and  the  carriage  rolled  along 
with  an  easy,  comfortable  rumble. 

They  were  driving  up  a  slope  which  wound 
along  the  side  of  a  hill.  At  the  top  of  the  hill 
trees  appeared  on  each  side,  and  the  road  made 
a  sharp  turn  here. 

Suddenly  the  report  of  a  shot  sounded  ahead. 

Then  a  scream. 

"  Good  Lord  !  Dacres,  did  you  hear  that  ?" 
cried  Hawbury.  "The  Baron  was  right,  after 
all." 

The  driver  here  tried  to  stop  his  horses,  but 
Hawbury  would  not  let  him. 

' '  Have  you  a  pistol,  Dacres  ?" 

"No." 

"Get  out!"  he  shouted  to  the  driver;  and, 
kicking  him  out  of  the  seat,  he  seized  the  reins 
himself,  and  drove  the  horses  straight  forward 
to  where  the  noise  arose. 

"It's  the  brigands,  Dacres.  The  ladies  are 
there." 

"My  wife!  O  God!  my  wife!"  groaned 
Dacres.  But  a  minute  before  he  had  been 
cursing  her. 


"  Get  a  knife  !  Get  something,  man  !  Have 
a  fight  for  it!" 

Dacres  murmured  something. 

Hawbury  lashed  the  horses,  and  drove  them 
straight  toward  the  wood. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

CAUGHT    IN     AMBUSH. 

THE  ladies  had  been  driving  on,  quite  uncon 
scious  of  the  neighborhood  of  any  danger,  ad 
miring  the  beauty  of  the  scenery,  and  calling 
one  another's  attention  to  the  various  objects  of 
interest  which  from  time  to  time  became  visible. 
Thus  engaged,  they  slowly  ascended  the  incline 
already  spoken  of,  and  began  to  enter  the  for 
est.  They  had  not  gone  far  when  the  road 
took  a  sudden  turn,  and  here  a  startling  spec 
tacle  burst  upon  their  view. 

The  road  on  turning  descended  slightly  into 
a  hollow.  On  the  right  arose  a  steep  acclivity, 
covered  with  the  dense  forest.  On  the  other 
side  the  ground  rose  more  gradually,  and  was 
covered  over  by  a  forest  much  less  dense.  Some 
distance  in  front  the  road  took  another  turn, 
and  was  lost  to  view  among  the  trees.  About 
a  hundred  yards  in  front  of  them  a  tree  had 
been  felled,  and  lay  across  the  way,  barring 
their  progress. 

About  twenty  armed  men  stood  before  them 
close  by  the  place  where  the  turn  was.  Among 
them  was  a  man  on  horseback.  To  their 
amazement,  it  was  Girasole. 

Before  the  ladies  could  recover  from  their 
astonishment  two  of  the  armed  men  advanced, 
and  the  driver  at  once  stopped  the  carriage. 

Girasole  then  came  forward. 

"  Miladi,"  said  he,  "I  haf  de  honore  of  to 
invitar  you  to  descend." 

"Pray  what  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  in 
quired  Lady  Dalrymple,  with  much  agitation. 

"It  means  dat  I  war  wrong.  Dere  are  brig 
and  on  dis  road." 

Lady  Dalrymple  said  not  another  word. 

The  Count  approached,  and  politely  offered 
his  hand  to  assist  the  ladies  out,  but  they  re 
jected  it,  and  got  out  themselves.  First  Mrs. 
Willoughby,  then  Ethel,  then  Lady  Dalrymple, 
then  Minnie.  Three  of  the  ladies  were  white 
with  utter  horror,  and  looked  around  in  sick 
ening  fear  upon  the  armed  men ;  but  Minnie 
showed  not  even  the  slightest  particle  of  fear. 

"How  horrid!"  she  exclaimed.  "And  now 
some  one  will  come  and  save  my  life  again. 
It's  always  the  way.  I'm  sure  this  isn't  my 
fault,  Kitty  darling." 

Before  her  sister  could  say  any  thing  Gira 
sole  approached. 

"Pardon,  mees,"  he  said  ;  "but  I  haf  made 
dis  recepzion  for  you.  You  sail  be  well  treat. 
Do  not  fear.  I  lay  down  my  life. " 

"  Villain !"  cried  Lady  Dalrymple.  "  Arrest 
her  at  your  peril.  Remember  who  she  is.  She 
has  friends  powerful  enough  to  avenge  her  if 
you  dare  to  injure  her." 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


85 


"  You  arra  mistake, "  said  Girasole,  politely. 
"Se  is  mine,  not  yours.  I  am  her  best  fren. 
Se  is  fiancee  to  me.  I  save  her  life — tell  her 
my  love — make  a  proposezion.  Se  accept  me. 
Se  is  my  fiancee.  I  was  oppose  by  you.  What 
else  sail  I  do  ?  I  mus  haf  her.  Se  is  mine. 
I  am  an  Italiano  nobile,  an'  I  love  her.  Dere 
is  no  harm  for  any.  You  mus  see  dat  I  haf 
de  right.  But  for  me  se  would  be  dead." 

Lady  Dalrymple  was  not  usually  excitable, 
but  now  her  whole  nature  was  aroused;  her 
eyes  flashed  with  indignation ;  her  face  turned 
red ;  she  gasped  for  breath,  and  fell  to  the 
ground.  Ethel  rushed  to  assist  her,  and  two 
of  the  maids  came  up.  Lady  Dalrymple  lay 
senseless. 

With  Mrs.  Willoughby  the  result  was  differ 
ent.  She  burst  into  tears. 

"  Count  Girasole,"  she  cried,  "oh,  spare  her ! 
If  you  love  her,  spare  her.  She  is  only  a  child. 
If  we  opposed  you,  it  was  not  from  any  objec 
tion  to  vou ;  it  was  because  she  is  such  a 
child." 

"You  mistake,"  said  the  Count,  shrugging 
his  shoulders.  "I  love  her  better  than  life. 
Se  love  me.  It  will  make  her  happy.  You 
come  too.  You  sail  see  se  is  happy.  Come. 
Be  my  sistaire.  It  is  love — " 

Mrs.  Willoughby  burst  into  fresh  tears  at 
this,  and  flung  her  arms  around  Minnie,  and 
moaned  and  wept. 

"Well,  now,  Kitty  darling,  I  think  it's  hor 
rid.  You're  never  satisfied.  You're  always 
finding  fault.  I'm  sure  if  you  don't  like  Rufus 
K.  Guun,  you — " 

But  Minnie's  voice  was  interrupted  by  the 
sound  of  approaching  wheels.  It  was  the  car 
riage  of  the  Baron  and  his  friend.  The  Baron 
had  feared  brigands,  but  he  was  certainly  not 
expecting  to  come  upon  them  so  suddenly.  The 
brigands  had  been  prepared,  and  as  the  carriage 
turned  it  was  suddenly  stopped  by  the  two  car 
riages  in  front,  and  at  once  was  surrounded. 

The  Baron  gave  one  lightning  glance,  and 
surveyed  the  whole  situation.  He  did  not 
move,  but  his  form  was  rigid,  and  every  nerve 
was  braced,  and  his  eyes  gleamed  fiercely.  He 
saw  it  all — the  crowd  of  women,  the  calm  face 
of  Minnie,  and  the  uncontrollable  agitation  of 
Mrs.  Willoughby. 

"Well,  by  thunder!"  he  exclaimed. 

Girasole  rode  up  and  called  out : 

*' Surrender!     You  arra  my  prisoner." 

"What!  it's  you,  is  it?"  said  the  Baron; 
and  he  glared  for  a  moment  with  a  vengeful 
look  at  Girasole. 

"Descend,"  said  Girasole.  "You  mus  be 
bound." 

"Bound?  All  right.  Here,  parson,  you 
jump  down,  and  let  them  tie  your  hands." 

The  Baron  stood  up.  The  Reverend  Saul 
stood  up  too.  The  Reverend  Saul  began  to 
step  down  very  carefully.  The  brigands  gath 
ered  around,  most  of  them  being  on  the  side  on 
which  the  two  were  about  to  descend.  The 
Reverend  Saul  had  just  stepped  to  the  ground. 


The  Baron  was  just  preparing  to  follow.  The 
brigands  were  impatient  to  secure  them,  when 
suddenly,  with  a  quick  movement,  the  Baron 
gave  a  spring  out  of  the  opposite  side  of  the 
carriage,  and  leaped  to  the  ground.  The  brig 
ands  were  taken  completely  by  surprise,  and 
before  they  could  prepare  to  follow  him,  he  had 
sprung  into  the  forest,  and,  with  long  bounds, 
was  rushing  up  the  steep  hill  and  out  of  sight. 

One  shot  was  fired  after  him,  and  that  was 
the  shot  that  Hawbury  and  Dacres  heard. 
Two  men  sprang  after  him  with  the  hope  of 
catching  him. 

In  a  few  moments  a  loud  cry  was  heard  from 
the  woods. 

"MIN!" 

Minnie  heard  it ;  a  gleam  of  light  flashed 
from  her  eyes,  a  smile  of  triumph  came  over 
her  lips. 

"  Wha-a-a-a-t  ?"  she  called  in  reply. 

"  Wa-a-a-a-a-a-it !"  was  the  cry  that  came 
back — and  this  was  the  cry  that  Hawbury  and 
Dacres  had  heard. 

"  Sacr-r-r-r-r-r-remento ! "  growled  Girasole. 

"I'm  sure  /don't  know  what  he  means  by 
telling  me  that,"  said  Minnie.  "How  can  I 
wait  if  this  horrid  Italian  won't  let  me  ?  I'm 
sure  he  might  be  more  considerate." 

Poor  Mrs.  Willoughby,  who  had  for  a  mo 
ment  been  roused  to  hope  by  the  escape  of  the 
Baron,  now  fell  again  into  despair,  and  wept 
and  moaned  and  clung  to  Minnie.  Lady  Dal 
rymple  still  lay  senseless,  in  spite  of  the  efforts 
of  Ethel  and  the  maids.  The  occurrence  had 
been  more  to  her  than  a  mere  encounter  with 
brigands.  It  was  the  thought  of  her  own  care 
lessness  that  overwhelmed  her.  In  an  instant 
the  thought  of  the  Baron's  warning  and  his 
solemn  entreaties  flashed  across  her  memory. 
She  recollected  how  Hawbury  had  commended 
his  friend,  and  how  she  had  turned  from  these 
to  put  her  trust  in  the  driver  and  Girasole,  the 
very  men  who  had  betrayed  her.  These  were 
the  thoughts  that  overwhelmed  her. 

But  now  there  arose  once  more  the  noise 
of  rolling  wheels,  advancing  more  swiftly  than 
the  last,  accompanied  by  the  lash  of  a  whip  and 
shouts  of  a  human  voice.  Girasole  spoke  to 
his  men,  and  they  moved  up  nearer  to  the  bend, 
and  stood  in  readiness  there. 

What  Hawbury's  motive  was  it  is  not  diffi 
cult  to  tell.  He  was  not  armed,  and  therefore 
could  not  hope  to  do  much ;  but  he  had  in  an 
instant  resolved  to  rush  thus  into  the  midst  of 
the  danger.  First  of  all  he  thought  that  a 
struggle  might  be  going  on  between  the  drivers, 
the  other  travelers,  and  the  brigands ;  in  which 
event  his  assistance  would  be  of  great  value. 
Though  unarmed,  he  thought  he  might  snatch 
or  wrest  a  weapon  from  some  one  of  the  enemy. 
In  addition  to  this,  he  wished  to  strike  a  blow 
to  save  the  ladies  from  captivity,  even  if  his 
blow  should  be  unavailing.  Even  if  he  had 
known  how  matters  were,  he  would  probably 
have  acted  in  precisely  the  same  way.  As  for 
Dacres,  he  had  but  one  idea.  He  was  sure  it 


86 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


was  some  trick  concocted  by  his  wife  and  the 
Italian,  though  why  they  should  do  so  he  did 
not  stop,  in  his  mad  mood,  to  inquire.  A  vague 
idea  that  a  communication  had  passed  between 
them  on  the  preceding  evening  with  reference 
to  this  was  now  in  his  mind,  and  his  vengeful  | 
feeling  was  stimulated  by  this  thought  to  the 
utmost  pitch  of  intensity. 

Hawbury  thus  lashed  his  horses,  and  they 
flew  along  the  road.  After  the  first  cry  and 
the  shot  that  they  had  heard  there  was  no  fur 
ther  noise.  The  stillness  was  mysterious.  It 
showed  Hawbury  that  the  struggle,  if  there  had 
been  any,  was  over.  But  the  first  idea  still  re 
mained  both  in  his  own  mind  and  in  that  of 
Dacres.  On  they  went,  and  now  they  came  to 
the  turn  in  the  road.  Round  this  they  whirled, 
and  in  an  instant  the  scene  revealed  itself. 

Three  carriages  stopped ;  some  drivers  stand 
ing  and  staring  indifferently ;  a  group  of  wo 
men  crowding  around  a  prostrate  form  that  lay 
in  the  road ;  a  pale,  beautiful  girl,  to  whom  a 
beautiful  woman  was  clinging  passionately ;  a 
crowd  of  armed  brigands  with  leveled  pieces ; 
and  immediately  before  them  a  horseman — the 
Italian,  Girasole. 

One  glance  showed  all  this.    Hawbury  could 
not  distinguish  any  face  among  the  crowd  of 
women  that  bent  over  Lady  Dalrymple,  and  j 
Ethel's  face  was  thus  still  unrevealed ;  but  he 
saw  Minnie  and  Mrs.  Willoughby  and  Girasole. 

'•What  the  devil's  all  this  about?"  asked 
Hawbury,  haughtily,  as  his  horses  stopped  at 
the  Baron's  carriage. 

"You  are  prisoners — "  began  Girasole. 

But  before  he  could  say  another  word  he  was 
interrupted  by  a  cry  of  fury  from  Dacres,  who, 
the  moment  that  he  had  recognized  him,  sprang 
to  his  feet,  and  with  a  long,  keen  knife  in  his 
hand,  leaped  from  the  carriage  into  the  midst 
of  the  brigands,  striking  right  and  left,  and  en 
deavoring  to  force  his  way  toward  Girasole. 
In  an  instant  Hawbury  was  by  his  side.  Two 
men  fell  beneath  the  fierce  thrusts  of  Dacres's 
knife,  and  Hawbury  tore  the  rifle  from  a  third. 
With  the  clubbed  end  of  this  he  began  dealing 
blows  right  and  left.  The  men  fell  back  and 
leveled  their  pieces.  Dacres  sprang  forward, 
and  was  within  three  steps  of  Girasole — his 
face  full  of  ferocity,  his  eyes  flashing,  and  look 
ing  not  so  much  like  an  English  gentleman  as 
one  of  the  old  vikings  in  a  Berserker  rage. 
One  more  spring  brought  him  closer  to  Girasole. 
The  Italian  retreated.  One  of  his  men  flung 
himself  before  Dacres  and  tried  to  grapple  with 
him.  The  next  instant  he  fell  with  a  groan, 
stabbed  to  the  heart.  With  a  yell  of  rage  the 
others  rushed  upon  Dacres ;  but  the  latter  was 
now  suddenly  seized  with  a  new  idea.  Turning 
for  an  instant  he  held  his  assailants  at  bay ;  and 
then,  seizing  the  opportunity,  sprang  into  the 
woods  and  ran.  One  or  two  shots  were  fired, 
and  then  half  a  dozen  men  gave  chase. 

Meanwhile  one  or  two  shots  had  been  fired 
at  Hawbury,  but,  in  the  confusion,  they  had  not 
taken  effect.  Suddenly,  as  he  stood  with  up 


lifted  rifle  ready  to  strike,  his  enemies  made  a 
simultaneous  rush  upon  him.  He  was  seized 
by  a  dozen  strong  arms.  He  struggled  fierce 
ly,  but  his  efforts  were  unavailing.  The  odds 
were  too  great.  Before  long  he  was  thrown  to 
the  ground  on  his  face,  and  his  arms  bound  be 
hind  him.  After  this  he  was  gagged. 

The  uproar  of  this  fierce  struggle  had  roused 
all  the  ladies,  and  they  turned  their  eyes  in 
horror  to  where  the  two  were  fighting  against 
such  odds.  Ethel  raised  herself  on  her  knees 
from  beside  Lady  Dalrymple,  and  caught  sight 
of  Hawbury.  For  a  moment  she  remained  mo 
tionless  ;  and  then  she  saw  the  escape  of  Dacres, 
and  Hawbury  going  down  in  the  grasp  of  his 
assailants.  She  gave  a  loud  shriek  and  rushed 
forward.  But  Girasole  intercepted  her. 

"  Go  back,"  he  said.  "  De  milor  is  my  pris 
oner.  Back,  or  you  will  be  bound." 

And  at  a  gesture  from  him  two  of  the  men 
advanced  to  seize  Ethel. 

"Back!"  he  said,  once  more,  in  a  stern 
voice.  "You  mus  be  tentif  to  miladi." 

Ethel  shrank  back. 

The  sound  of  that  scream  had  struck  on 
Hawbury's  ears,  but  he  did  not  recognize  it. 
If  he  thought  of  it  at  all,  he  supposed  it  was 
the  scream  of  common  terror  from  one  of  the 
women.  He  was  sore  and  bruised  and  fast 
bound.  He  was  held  down  also  in  such  a  way 
that  he  could  not  see  the  party  of  ladies.  The 
Baron's  carriage  intercepted  the  view,  for  he 
had  fallen  behind  this  during  the  final  struggle. 
After  a  little  time  he  was  allowed  to  sit  up,  but 
still  he  could  not  see  beyond. 

There  was  now  some  delay,  and  Girasole 
gave  some  orders  to  his  men.  The  ladies  wait 
ed  with  fearful  apprehensions.  They  listened 
eagerly  to  hear  if  there  might  not  be  some 
sounds  of  approaching  help.  But  no  such 
sounds  came  to  gladden  their  hearts.  Lady 
Dalrymple,  also,  still  lay  senseless  ;  and  Ethel, 
full  of  the  direst  anxiety  about  Hawbury,  had 
to  return  to  renew  her  efforts  toward  reviving 
her  aunt. 

Before  long  the  brigands  who  had  been  in 
pursuit  of  the  fugitives  returned  to  the  road. 
They  did  not  bring  back  either  of  them.  A 
dreadful  question  arose  in  the  minds  of  the  la 
dies  as  to  the  meaning  of  this.  Did  it  mean 
that  the  fugitives  had  escaped,  or  had  been 
shot  down  in  the  woods  by  their  wrathful  pur 
suers  ?  It  was  impossible  for  them  to  find  out. 
Girasole  went  over  to  them  and  conversed  with 
them  apart.  The  men  all  looked  sullen ;  but 
whether  that  arose  from  disappointed  venge 
ance  or  gratified  ferocity  it  was  impossible  for 
them  to  discern. 

The  brigands  now  turned  their  attention  to 
their  own  men.  Two  of  these  had  received 
bad  but  not  dangerous  wounds  from  the  dag 
ger  of  Dacres,  and  the  scowls  of  pain  and  rage 
which  they  threw  upon  Hawbury  and  the  other 
captives  boded  nothing  but  the  most  cruel  fate 
to  all  of  them.  Another,  however,  still  lay 
there.  It  was  the  one  who  had  intercepted 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


87 


TUB   MLLEE. 


Dacres  in  his  rush  upon  Girasole.  He  lay  mo 
tionless  in  a  pool  of  blood.  They  turned  him 
over.  His  white,  rigid  face,  as  it  became  ex 
posed  to  view,  exhibited  the  unmistakable  mark 
of  death,  and  a  gash  on  his  breast  showed  how 
his  fate  had  met  him. 

The  brigands  uttered  loud  cries,  and  ad 
vanced  toward  Hawbury.  He  sat  regarding 
them  with  perfect  indifference.  They  raised 
their  rifles,  some  clubbing  them,  others  taking 
aim,  swearing  and  gesticulating  all  the  time 
like  maniacs. 

Hawbury,  however,  did  not  move  a  muscle 
of  his  face,  nor  did  he  show  the  slightest  feel 
ing  of  any  kind.  He  was  covered  with  dust, 
and  his  clothes  were  torn  and  splashed  with 
mud,  and  his  hands  were  bound,  and  his  mouth 
was  gagged  ;  but  he  preserved  a  coolness  that 
astonished  his  enemies.  Had  it  not  been  for 
this  coolness  his  brains  might  have  been  blown 
out — in  which  case  this  narrative  would  never 
have  been  written ;  but  there  was  something  in 
his  look  which  made  the  Italians  pause,  gave 
Girasole  time  to  interfere,  and  thus  preserved 
my  story  from  ruin. 


Girasole  then  came  up  and  made  his  men 
stand  back.  They  obeyed  sullenly. 

Girasole  removed  the  gag. 

Then  he  stood  and  looked  at  Hawbury. 
Hawbury  sat  and  returned  his  look  with  his 
usual  nonchalance,  regarding  the  Italian  with 
a  cold,  steady  stare,  which  produced  upon  the 
latter  its  usual  maddening  effect. 

"Milor  will  be  ver  glad  to  hear,"  said  he, 
with  a  mocking  smile,  "  dat  de  mees  will  be 
take  good  care  to.  Milor  was  attentif  to  de 
mees ;  but  de  mees  haf  been  fiance'e  to  me, 
an*  so  I  take  dis  occazione  to  mak  her  mine.  I 
sail  love  her,  an'  se  sail  love  me.  I  haf  save 
her  life,  an'  se  haf  been  fiancee  to  me  since 
den." 

Now  Girasole  had  chosen  to  say  this  to  Haw 
bury  from  the  conviction  that  Hawbury  was 
Minnie's  lover,  and  that  the  statement  of  this 
would  inflict  a  pang  upon  the  heart  of  his  sup 
posed  rival  which  would  destroy  his  coolness. 
Thus  he  chose  rather  to  strike  at  Hawbury's 
jealousy  than  at  his  fear  or  at  his  pride. 

But  he  was  disappointed.  Hawbury  heard 
his  statement  with  utter  indifference. 


88 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"Well,"  said  he,  "all  I  can  say  is  that  it 
seems  to  me  to  be  a  devilish  odd  way  of  going 
to  work  about  it." 

"  Aha !"  said  Girasole,  fiercely.  "  You  sail 
see.  Se  sail  be  mine.  Aha!" 

Hawbury  made  no  reply,  and  Girasole,  after 
a  gesture  of  impatience,  walked  off,  baffled. 

In  a  few  minutes  two  men  came  up  to  Haw- 
bury,  and  led  him  away  to  the  woods  on  the  left. 


•'THEY  SAW  A  BULNED  HOUSE." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

AM  us. ;     THE    BRIGANDS. 

GIRASOLE  now  returned  to  the  ladies.  They 
were  in  the  same  position  in  which  he  had  left 
them.  Mrs.  Willoughby  with  Minnie,  and  Ethel, 
with  the  maids,  attending  to  Lady  Dalrymple. 

"Miladi,"said  Girasole,  "I  beg  your  atten- 
zion.  I  haf  had  de  honore  to  inform  you  dat  dis 
mees  is  my  fiancee.  Se  haf  give  me  her  heart 
an'  her  hand  ;  se  love  me,  an'  I  love  her.  I  was 
prevent  from  to  see  her,  an'  I  haf  to  take  her  in 
dis  mannaire.  I  feel  sad  at  de  pain  I  haf  give 
you,  an'  assuir  you  dat  it  was  inevitabile.  You 
sail  not  be  troubled  more.  You  are  free. 
Mees,"  he  continued,  taking  Minnie's  hand, 
"you  haf  promis  me  dis  fair  ban',  an'  you  are 
mine.  You  come  to  one  who  loves  you  bettaire 
dan  life,  an'  who  you  love.  You  owe  youair  life 
to  me.  I  sail  make  it  so  happy  as  nevair  was." 

"I'm  sure  /  don't  want  to  be  happy,"  said 
Minnie.  "I  don't  want  to  leave  darling  Kitty 
— and  it's  a  shame — and  you'll  make  me  hate 
you  if  you  do  so." 


"Miladi,"said  Girasole  to  Mrs.  Willoughby, 
"  de  mees  says  se  not  want  to  leaf  you.  Eef 
you  want  to  come,  you  may  come  an'  be  our 
sistaire." 

"  Oh,  Kitty  darling,  you  won't  leave  me,  will 
you,  all  alone  with  this  horrid  man  ?"  said  Min 
nie. 

"My  darling,"  moaned  Mrs.  Willoughby, 
"how  can  I?  I'll  go.  Oh,  my  sweet  sister, 
what  misery !" 

"Oh,  now  that  will  be  really  quite  delightful 
if  you  will  come,  Kitty  darling.  Only  I'm 
afraid  you'll  find  it  awfully  uncomfortable." 

Girasole  turned  once  more  to  the  other  ladies. 

"I  beg  you  will  assura  de  miladi  when  she 
recovaire  of  my  consideration  de  mos  distingue, 
an'  convey  to  her  de  regrettas  dat  I  haf.  Mi 
ladi,"  he  continued,  addressing  Ethel,  "you  are 
free,  an'  can  go.  You  will  not  be  molest  by 
me.  You  sail  go  safe.  Yon  haf  not  ver  far. 
You  sail  fin'  houses  dere — forward — before — 
not  far.". 

With  these  words  he  turned  away. 

"  You  mus  come  wit  me,"  he  said  to  Mrs. 
Willoughby  and  Minnie.  "  Come.  Eet  ees 
not  ver  far." 

He  walked  slowly  into  the  woods  on  the  left, 
and  the  two  sisters  followed  him.  Of  the  two 
Minnie  was  far  the  more  cool  and  collected. 
She  was  as  composed  as  usual;  and,  as  there 
was  no  help  for  it,  she  walked  on.  Mrs.  Wil 
loughby,  however,  was  terribly  agitated,  and 
wept  and  shuddered  and  moaned  incessantly. 

"Kitty  darling,"  said  Minnie,  "I  wish  you 
wouldn't  go  on  so.  You  really  make  me  feel 
quite  nervous.  I  never  saw  you  so  bad  in  my 
life." 

"Poor  Minnie*!  Poor  child  !  Poor  sweet 
child!" 

"Well,  if  I  am  a  child,  you  needn't  go  and 
tell  me  about  it  all  the  time.  It's  really  quite 
horrid." 

Mrs.  Willoughby  said  no  more,  but  generous 
ly  tried  to  repress  her  own  feelings,  so  as  not 
to  give  distress  to  her  sister. 

After  the  Count  had  entered  the  wood  with 
the  two  sisters  the  drivers  removed  the  horses 
from  the  carriages  and  went  away,  led  off  by 
the  man  who  had  driven  the  ladies.  This  was 
the  man  whose  stolid  face  had  seemed  likely 
to  belong  to  an  honest  man,  but  who  now  was 
shown  to  belong  to  the  opposite  class.  These 
men  went  down  the  road  over  which  they  had 
come,  leaving  the  carriages  there  with  the  ladies 
and  their  maids. 

Girasole  now  led  the  way,  and  Minnie  and 
her  sister  followed  him.  The  wood  was  very 
thick,  and  grew  more  so  as  they  advanced,  but 
there  was  not  much  underbrush,  and  progress 
was  not  difficult.  Several  times  a  wild  thought 
of  flight  came  to  Mrs.  Willoughby,  but  was  at 
once  dispelled  by  a  helpless  sense  of  its  utter 
impossibility.  How  could  she  persuade  the 
impracticable  Minnie,  who  seemed  so  free  from 
all  concern  ?  or,  if  she  could  persuade  her,  how 
could  she  accomplish  her  desire?  She  would 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


89 


at  once  be  pursued  and  surrounded,  while,  even 
if  she  did  manage  to  escape,  how  could  she  ever 
find  her  way  to  any  place  of  refuge  ?  Every 
minute,  also,  drew  them  deeper  and  deeper  into 
the  woods,  and  the  path  was  a  winding  one,  in 
which  she  soon  became  bewildered,  until  at  last 
all  sense  of  her  whereabouts  was  utterly  gone. 
At  last  even  the  idea  of  escaping  ceased  to  sug 
gest  itself,  and  there  remained  only  a  dull  de 
spair,  a  sense  of  utter  helplessness  and  hope 
lessness — the  sense  of  one  who  is  going  to  his 
doom. 

Girasole  said  nothing  whatever,  but  led  the 
way  in  silence,  walking  slowly  enough  to  ac 
commodate  the  ladies,  and  sometimes  holding 
an  overhanging  branch  to  prevent  it  from  spring 
ing  back  in  their  faces.  Minnie  walked  on  light 
ly,  and  with  an  elastic  step,  looking  around  with 
evident  interest  upon  the  forest.  Once  a  pass 
ing  lizard  drew  from  her  a  pretty  little  shriek 
of  alarm,  thus  showing  that  while  she  was  so 
calm  in  the  face  of  real  and  frightful  danger, 
she  could  be  alarmed  by  even  the  most  innocent 
object  that  affected  her  fancy.  Mrs.  Willough- 
by  thought  that  she  understood  Minnie  before, 
but  this  little  shriek  at  a  lizard,  from  one  who 
smiled  at  the  brigands,  struck  her  as  a  problem 
quite  beyond  her  power  to  solve. 

The  woods  now  began  to  grow  thinner.  The 
trees  were  larger  and  farther  apart,  and  rose  all 
around  in  columnar  array,  so  that  it  was  possi 
ble  to  see  between  them  to  a  greater  distance. 
At  length  there  appeared  before  them,  through 
the  trunks  of  the  trees,  the  gleam  of  water.  Mrs. 
Willoughby  noticed  this,  and  wondered  what  it 
might  be.  At  first  she  thought  it  was  a  harbor 
on  the  coast ;  then  she  thought  it  was  some  riv 
er  ;  but  finally,  on  coming  nearer,  she  saw  that 
it  was  a  lake.  In  a  few  minutes  after  they  first 
caught  sight  of  it  they  had  reached  its  banks. 

It  was  a  most  beautiful  and  sequestered  spot. 
All  around  were  high  wooded  eminences,  be 
yond  whose  undulating  summits  arose  the  tow 
ering  forms  of  the  Apennine  heights.  Among 
these  hills  lay  a  little  lake  about  a  mile  in  length 
and  breadth,  whose  surface  was  as  smooth  as 
glass,  and  reflected  the  surrounding  shores.  On 
their  right,  as  they  descended,  they  saw  some 
figures  moving,  and  knew  them  to  be  the  brig 
ands,  while  on  their  left  they  saw  a  ruined  house. 
Toward  this  Girasole  led  them. 

The  house  stood  on  the  shore  of  the  lake.  It 
was  of  stone,  and  was  two  stories  in  height. 
The  roof  was  still  good,  but  the  windows  were 
gone.  There  was  no  door,  but  half  a  dozen  or 
so  of  the  brigands  stood  there,  and  formed  a 
sufficient  guard  to  prevent  the  escape  of  any 
prisoner.  These  men  had  dark,  wicked  eyes 
and  sullen  faces,  which  afforded  fresh  terror  to 
Mrs.  Willoughby.  She  had  thought,  in  her 
desperation,  of  making  some  effort  to  escape  by 
bribing  the  men,  but  the  thorough-bred  rascal 
ity  which  was  evinced  in  the  faces  of  these  ruf 
fians  showed  her  that  they  were  the  very  fel 
lows  who  would  take  her  money  and  cheat  her 
afterward.  If  she  had  been  able  to  speak  Ital 


ian,  she  might  have  secured  their  services  by 
the  prospect  of  some  future  reward  after  escap 
ing  ;  but,  as  it  was,  she  could  not  speak  a  word 
of  the  language,  and  thus  could  not  enter  upon 
even  the  preliminaries  of  an  escape. 

On  reaching  the  house  the  ruffians  stood 
aside,  staring  hard  at  them.  Mrs.  Willoughby 
shrank  in  terror  from  the  baleful  glances  of 
their  eyes ;  but  Minnie  looked  at  them  calmly 
and  innocently,  and  not  without  some  of  that 
curiosity  which  a  child  shows  when  he  first  sees 
a  Chinaman  or  an  Arab  in  the  streets.  Gira 
sole  then  led  the  way  up  stairs  to  a  room  on  the 
second  story. 

It  was  an  apartment  of  large  size,  extending 
across  the  house,  with  a  window  at  each  end, 
and  two  on  the  side.  On  the  floor  there  was 
a  heap  of  straw,  over  which  some  skins  were 
thrown.  There  were  no  chairs,  nor  was  there 
any  table. 

"Scusa  me,"  said  Girasole,  "miladi,  for  dis 
accommodazion.  It  gifs  me  pain,  but  I  prom 
ise  it  sail  not  be  long.  Only  dis  day  an'  dis 
night  here.  I  haf  to  detain  you  dat  time.  Den 
we  sail  go  to  where  I  haf  a  home  fitter  for  de 
bride.  I  haf  a  home  wharra  you  sail  be  a  happy 
bride,  mees — " 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  stay  here  at  all  in  such 
a  horrid  place,"  said  Minnie,  looking  around  in 
disgust. 

"Only  dis  day  an'  dis  night,"  said  Girasole, 
imploringly.  "Aftaire  you  sail  have  all  you 
sail  wis." 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,  I  think  it's  very  horrid 
in  you  to  shut  me  up  here.  You  might  let  me 
walk  outside  in  the  woods.  I'm  so  azt-fully  fond 
of  the  woods. " 

Girasole  smiled  faintly. 

"And  so  you  sail  have  plenty  of  de  wood — 
but  to-morra.  You  wait  here  now.  All  safe — 
oh  yes — secura — all  aright — oh  yes — slip  to 
night,  an'  in  de  mornin'  early  you  sail  be  mine. 
Dere  sail  come  a  priest,  an'  we  sail  have  de  cere 
mony." 

"  Well,  I  think  it  was  very  unkind  in  you  to 
bring  me  to  such  a  horrid  place.  And  how  can 
I  sit  down  ?  You  might  have  had  a  chair.  And 
look  at  poor,  darling  Kitty.  You  may  be  un 
kind  to  me,  but  you  needn't  make  her  sit  on  the 
floor.  You  never  saved  her  life,  and  you  have 
no  right  to  be  unkind  to  her." 

"Unkind!  Oh,  mees*! — my  heart,  my  life, all 
arra  youairs,  an'  I  lay  my  life  at  youair  foot." 

"I  think  it  would  be  far  more  kind  if  yon 
would  put  a  chair  at  poor  Kitty's  feet,"  retort 
ed  Minnie,  with  some  show  of  temper. 

"But,  oh,  carissima,  tink — de  wild  wood — 
noting  here — no,  noting — not  a  chair — only  de 
straw. " 

"Then  you  had  no  business  to  bring  me  here. 
You  might  have  known  that  there  were  no  chairs 
here.  I  can't  sit  down  on  nothing.  But  I  sup 
pose  you  expect  me  to  stand  up.  And  if  that 
isn't  horrid,  I  don't  know  what  is.  I'm  sure  I 
don't  know  what  poor  dear  papa  would  say  if 
he  were  to  see  me  now." 


90 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


WHAT   IS   THIS   FOE?" 


"Do  not  grieve,  carissima  mia —  do  not, 
charming  mees,  decompose  yourself.  To-mor- 
ra  you  sail  go  to  a  bettaire  place,  an'  I  will 
carra  you  to  my  castello.  You  sail  haf  every 
want,  you  sail  enjoy  every  wis,  you  sail  be 
happy." 

"But  I  don't  see  howl  can  be  happy  without 
a  chair,"  reiterated  Minnie,  in  whose  mind  this 
one  grievance  now  became  pre-eminent.  "  You 
talk  as  though  you  think  I  am  made  of  stone  or 
iron,  and  you  think  I  can  stand  here  all  day  or 
all  night,  and  you  want  me  to  sleep  on  that 
horrid  straw  and  those  horrid  furry  things.  I 
suppose  this  is  the  castle  that  you  speak  of;  and 
I'm  sure  I  wonder  why  you  ever  thought  of 
bringing  me  here.  I  suppose  it  doesn't  make 
so  much  difference  about  a  carpet ;  but  you  will 
not  even  let  me  have  a  chair ;  and  I  think  you're 
very  unkind." 

Girasole  was  in  despair.  He  stood  in 
thought  for  some  time.  He  felt  that  Minnie's 
rebuke  was  deserved.  If  she  had  reproached 
him  with  waylaying  her  and  carrying  her  off,  he 
could  have  borne  it,  and  could  have  found  a  re 
ply.  But  such  a  charge  as  this  was  unanswer 


able.  It  certainly  was  very  hard  that  she 
should  not  be  able  to  sit  down.  But  then  how 
was  it  possible  for  him  to  find  a  chair  in  the 
woods?  It  was  an  insoluble  problem.  How 
in  the  world  could  he  satisfy  her  ? 

Minnie's  expression  also  was  most  touching. 
The  fact  that  she  had  no  chair  to  sit  on  seemed 
to  absolutely  overwhelm  her.  The  look  that 
she  gave  Girasole  was  so  piteous,  so  reproach 
ful,  so  heart-rending,  that  his  soul  actually 
quaked,  and  a  thrill  of  remorse  passed  all  through 
his  frame.  He  felt  a  cold  chill  running  to  the 
very  marrow  of  his  bones. 

"  I  think  you're  very,  very  unkind,"  said  Min 
nie,  "  and  I  really  don't  see  how  I  can  ever  speak 
to  you  again." 

This  was  too  much.  Girasole  turned  away. 
He  rushed  down  stairs.  He  wandered  frantic 
ally  about.  He  looked  in  all  directions  for  a 
chair.  There  was  plenty  of  wood  certainly — 
for  all  around  he  saw  the  vast  forest — but  of 
what  use  was  it?  He  could  not  transform  a 
tree  into  a  chair.  He  communicated  his  diffi 
culty  to  some  of  the  men.  They  shook  their 
heads  helplessly.  At  last  he  saw  the  stump  of 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


91 


a  tree  which  was  of  such  a  shape  that  it  looked 
as  though  it  might  be  used  as  a  seat.  It  was 
his  only  resource,  and  he  seized  it.  Calling 
two  or  three  of  the  men,  he  had  the  stump  car 
ried  to  the  old  house.  He  rushed  up  stairs  to 
acquaint  Minnie  with  his  success,  and  to  try  to 
console  her.  She  listened  in  coldness  to  his 
hasty  words.  The  men  who  were  carrying  the 
stump  came  up  with  a  clump  and  a  clatter, 
breathing  hard,  for  the  stump  was  very  heavy, 
and  finally  placed  it  on  the  landing  in  front  of 
Minnie's  door.  On  reaching  that  spot  it  was 
found  that  it  would  not  go  in. 

Minnie  heard  the  noise  and  came  out.  She 
looked  at  the  stump,  then  at  the  mer  and  then 
at  Girasole. 

"What  is  this  for  ?"  she  asked. 

"Eet — eet  ees  for  a  chair." 

"A  chair !"  exclaimed  Minnie.  "  Why,  it's 
nothing  but  a  great  big,  horrid,  ugly  old  stump, 
and — " 

Her  remarks  ended  in  a  scream.  She  turned 
and  ran  back  into  the  .room. 

"What  —  what  is  de  mattaire?"  cried  the 
Count,  looking  into  the  room  with  a  face  pale 
with  anxiety. 

"Oh,  take  it  away!  take  it  away!"  cried 
Minnie,  in  terror. 

"What?  what?" 

"Take  it  away!  take  it  away!"  she  re 
peated. 

"But  eet  ees  for  you — eet  ees  a  seat." 

"I  don't  want  it.  I  won't  have  it!"  cried 
Minnie.  "It's  full  of  horrid  ants  and  things. 
And  it's  dreadful — and  very,  very  cruel  in  you 
to  bring  them  up  here  just  to  tease  me,  when 
you  know  I  hate  them  so.  Take  it  away  !  take 
it  away !  oh,  do  please  take  it  away !  And  oh, 
do  please  go  away  yourself,  and  leave  me  with 
dear,  darling  Kitty.  She  never  teases  me.  She 
is  always  kind." 

Girasole  turned  away  once  more,  in  fresh 
trouble.  He  had  the  stump  carried  off,  and 
then  he  wandered  away.  He  was  quite  at  a 
loss  what  to  do.  He  was  desperately  in  love, 
and  it  was  a  very  small  request  for  Minnie  to 
make,  and  he  was  in  that  state  of  mind  when 
it  would  be  a  happiness  to  grant  her  slightest 
wish;  but  here  he  found  himself  in  a  difficulty 
from  which  he  could  find  no  possible  means  of 
escape. 

"And  now,  Kitty  darling,"  said  Minnie,  after 
Girasole  had  gone — "now  you  see  how  very, 
very  wrong  you  were  to  be  so  opposed  to  that 
dear,  good,  kind,  nice  Rufus  K.  Gunn.  He 
would  never  have  treated  me  so.  He  would 
never  have  taken  me  to  a  place  like  this  —  a 
horrid  old  house  by  a  horrid  damp  pond,  with 
out  doors  and  windows,  just  like  a  beggar's 
house — and  then  put  me  in  a  room  without  a 
chair  to  sit  on  when  I'm  so  awfully  tired.  He 
was  always  kind  to  me,  and  that  was  the  reason 
you  hated  him  so,  because  you  couldn't  bear  to 
have  people  kind  to  me.  And  I'm  so  tired." 

"  Come,  then,  poor  darling.  I'll  make  a  nice 
seat  for  you  out  of  these  skins." 


And  Mrs.  Willoughby  began  to  fold  some  of 
them  up  and  lay  them  one  upon  the  other. 

' '  What  is  that  for,  Kitty  dear  ?"  asked  Minnie. 

"To  make  you  a  nice,  soft  seat,  dearest." 

"But  I  don't  want  them,  and  I  won't  sit  on 
the  horrid  things,"  said  Minnie. 

"But,  darling,  they  are  as  soft  as  a  cush 
ion.  See!"  And  her  sister  pressed  her  hand 
on  them,  so  as  to  show  how  soft  they  were. 

"I  don't  think  they're  soft  at  all,"  said  Min 
nie;  "and  I  wish  you  wouldn't  tease  me  so, 
when  I'm  so  tired." 

"Then  come,  darling ;  I  will  sit  on  them,  and 
you  shall  sit  on  my  knees." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  go  near  those  horrid 
furry  things.  They  belong  to  cows  and  things. 
I  think  every  body's  unkind  to  me  to-day." 

"  Minnie,  dearest,  you  really  wound  me  when 
you  talk  in  that  way.  Be  reasonable  now. 
See  what  pains  I  take.  I  do  all  I  can  for 
you." 

"  But  I'm  always  reasonable,  and  it's^ow  that 
are  unreasonable,  when  you  want  me  to  sit  on 
that  horrid  fur.  It's  very,  very  disagreeable  in 
you,  Kitty  dear." 

Mrs.  Willoughby  said  nothing,  but  went  on 
folding  some  more  skins.  These  she  placed  on 
the  straw  so  that  a  pile  was  formed  about  as 
high  as  an  ordinary  chair.  This  pile  was  placed 
against  the  wall  so  that  the  wall  served  as  a 
support. 

Then  she  seated  herself  upon  this. 

"Minnie,  dearest,"  said  she. 

"Well,  Kitty  darling." 

"  It's  really  quite  soft  and  comfortable.  Do 
come  and  sit  on  it;  do,  just  io  please  me, 
only  for  five  minutes.  See!  I'll  spread  my 
dress  over  it  so  that  you  need  not  touch  it. 
Come,  dearest,  only  for  five  minutes." 

"Well,  I'll  sit  on  it  just  for  a  little  mite  of 
a  time,  if  you  promise  not  to  tease  me." 

"Tease  you,  dear!  Why,  of  course  not. 
Come." 

So  Minnie  went  over  and  sat  by  her  sister's 
side. 

In  about  an  hour  Girasole  came  back.  The 
two  sisters  were  seated  there.  Minnie's  head 
was  resting  on  her  sister's  shoulder,  and  she 
was  fast  asleep,  while  Mrs.  Willoughby  sat  mo 
tionless,  with  her  face  turned  toward  him,  and 
such  an  expression  in  her  dark  eyes  that  Gira 
sole  felt  awed.  He  turned  in  silence  and  went 
away. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

SEEKING    FOR    HELP. 

THE  departure  of  the  drivers  with  their 
horses  had  increased  the  difficulties  of  the 
party,  and  had  added  to  their  danger.  Of  that 
party  Ethel  was  now  the  head,  and  her  efforts 
were  directed  more  zealously  than  ever  to  bring 
back  Lady  Dalrymple  to  her  senses.  At  last 
these  efforts  were  crowned  with  success,  and, 
after  being  senseless  for  nearly  an  hour,  she 


92 


THE  AMERICAN  BAROX. 


"ETHEL  OBTAINED  A  PAIB  OF  SCISSORS. 


came  to  herself.  The  restoration  of  her  senses, 
however,  brought  with  it  the  discovery  of  all 
that  had  occurred,  and  thus  caused  a  new  rush 
of  emotion,  which  threatened  painful  conse 
quences.  But  the  consequences  were  averted, 
and  at  length  she  was  able  to  rise.  She  was 
then  helped  into  her  carriage,  after  which  the 
question  arose  as  to  their  next  proceeding. 

The  loss  of  the  horses  and  drivers  was  a  very 
embarrassing  thing  to  them,  and  for  a  time  they 
were  utterly  at  a  loss  what  course  to  adopt. 
Lady  Dalrymple  was  too  weak  to  walk,  and  they 
had  no  means  of  conveying  her.  The  maids  had 
simply  lost  their  wits  from  fright ;  and  Ethel 
could  not  see  her  way  clearly  out  of  the  diffi 
culty.  At  this  juncture  they  were  roused  by  the 
approach  of  the  Rev.  Saul  Tozer. 

This  reverend  man  had  been  bound  as  he  de 
scended  from  his  carriage,  and  had  remained 
bound  ever  since.  In  that  state  he  had  been  a 
spectator  of  the  struggle  and  its  consequences, 
and  he  now  came  forward  to  offer  his  serv 
ices. 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  remember  me, 
ma'am,"  said  he  to  Lady  Dalrymple,  "  but  I 
looked  in  at  your  place  at  Rome ;  and  in  any 
case  I  am  bound  to  offer  you  iny  assistance, 
since  you  are  companions  with  me  in  my  bonds, 
which  I'd  be  much  obliged  if  one  of  you  ladies 
would  untie  or  cut.  Perhaps  it  would  be  best 
to  untie  it,  as  rope's  valuable." 

At  this  request  Ethel  obtained  a  pair  of  scis 
sors  from  one  of  the  maids,  and  after  vigorous 
efforts  succeeded  in  freeing  the  reverend  gentle 
man. 

"  Really,  Sir,  I  am  very  much  obliged  for  this 


kind  offer,"  said  Lady  Dalrymple,  "  and  I  avail 
myself  of  it  gratefully.  Can  you  advise  us  what 
is  best  to  do?" 

"Well,  ma'am,  I've  been  turning  it  over  in 
my  mind,  and  have  made  it  a  subject  of  prayer ; 
and  it  seems  to  me  that  it  wouldn't  be  bad  to  go 
out  and  see  the  country." 

"There  are  no  houses  for  miles,"  said  Ethel. 

"  Have  you  ever  been  this  road  before  ?"  said 
Tozer. 

"No." 

"  Then  how  do  you  know  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  was  thinking  of  the  part  we  had  pass 
ed  over." 

"  True ;  but  the  country  in  front  may  be  dif 
ferent.  Didn't  that  brigand  captain  say  some 
thing  about  getting  help  ahead  ?" 

"Yes,  so  he  did;  I  remember  now,"  said 
Ethel. 

"  Well,  I  wouldn't  take  his  advice  generally, 
but  in  this  matter  I  don't  see  any  harm  in  fol 
lowing  it ;  so  I  move  that  I  be  a  committee  of 
one  to  go  ahead  and  investigate  the  country  and 
bring  help." 

"Oh,  thanks,  thanks,  very  much.  Really, 
Sir,  this  is  very  kind,"  said  Lady  Dalrymple. 

"And  I'll  go  too,"  said  Ethel,  as  a  sudden 
thought  occurred  to  her.  "Would  you  be 
afraid,  aunty  dear,  to  stay  here  alone?" 

"Certainly  not,  dear.  I  have  no  more  fear 
for  myself,  but  I'm  afraid  to  trust  you  out  of  my 
sight." 

"  Oh,  you  need  not  fear  for  me,"  said  Ethel. 
"  I  shall  certainly  be  as  safe  farther  on  as  I  am 
here.  Besides,  if  we  can  find  help  I  will  know 
best  what  is  wanted." 

"  Well,  dear,  I  suppose  you  may  go." 

Without  further  delay  Ethel  started  off,  and 
Tozer  walked  by  her  side.  They  .went  under 
the  fallen  tree,  and  then  walked  quickly  along 
the  road. 

"  Do  you  speak  Italian,  miss  ?"  asked  Tozer. 

"No." 

"I'm  sorry  for  that.  I  don't  either.  I'm 
told  it's  a  fine  language." 

"  So  I  believe  ;  but  how  very  awkward  it  will 
be  not  to  be  able  to  speak  to  any  person !" 

"  Well,  the  /talian  is  a  kind  of  offshoot  of  the 
Latin,  and  I  can  scrape  together  a  few  Latin 
words — enough  to  make  myself  understood,  I 
do  believe." 

"  Can  you.  really  ?     How  very  fortunate !" 

"  It  is  somewhat  providential,  miss,  and  I 
hope  I  may  succeed." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  now  for  some 
time.  Ethel  was  too  sad  to  talk,  and  Tozer 
was  busily  engaged  in  recalling  all  the  Latin  at 
his  command.  After  a  while  he  began  to  grow 
sociable. 

"  Might  I  ask,  miss,  what  persuasion  you 
are  ?" 

"Persuasion?"  said  Ethel,  in  surprise. 

"Yes,  'm;  de-nomination — religious  body, 
you  know." 

"Oh  !  why,  I  belong  to  the  Church." 

"  Oh !  and  what  church  did  you  say,  'm  ?" 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


93 


"The  Church  of  England." 

"  H'm.  The  Tiscopalian  body.  Well,  it's 
a  high-toned  body." 

Ethel  gave  a  faint  smile  at  this  whimsical  ap 
plication  of  a  name  to  her  church,  and  then 
Tozer  returned  to  the  charge. 

"Are  you  a  professor?" 

"A  what?" 

"A  professor." 

"  A  professor  ?"  repeated  Ethel.  "I  don't 
think  I  quite  understand  you." 

"Well,  do  you  belong  to  the  church?  Are 
you  a  member  ?" 

"Oh  yes." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  It's  a  high  and  a  holy 
and  a  happy  perrivelege  to  belong  to  the  church 
and  enjoy  the  means  of  grace.  I  trust  you  live 
up  to  your  perriveleges  ?" 

"Live  what?"  asked  Ethel. 

"Live  up  to  your  perriveleges,"  repeated 
Tozer — "  attend  on  all  the  means  of  grace — be 
often  at  the  assembling  of  yourself  together." 

"  The  assembling  of  myself  together  ?  I 
don't  thinkl  quite  get  your  meaning,"  said  Ethel. 

"Meeting,  you  know — church-meeting." 

"Oh  yes;  I  didn't  understand.  Oh  yes,  I 
always  go  to  church." 

"  That's  right,"  said  Tozer,  with  a  sigh  of  re 
lief;  "  and  I  suppose,  now,  you  feel  an  interest  in 
the  cause  of  missions?" 

"Missions?  Oh,  I  don't  know.  The  Roman 
Catholics  practice  that  to  some  extent,  and  sev 
eral  of  my  friends  say  they  feel  benefit  from  a 
mission  once  a  year ;  but  for  my  part  I  have  not 
yet  any  very  decided  leanings  to  Roman  Cathol 
icism." 

"Oh,  dear  me,  dear  me!"  cried  Tozer, 
"that's  not  what  I  mean  at  all;  I  mean  Prot 
estant  missions  to  the  heathen,  you  know." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Ethel.  "I 
thought  you  were  referring  to  something  else." 

Tozer  was  silent  now  for  a  few  minutes,  and 
then  asked  her,  abruptly, 

"  What's  your  opinion  about  the  Jews?" 

"The  Jews?"  exclaimed  Ethel,  looking  at 
him  in  some  surprise,  and  thinking  that  her 
companion  must  be  a  little  insane  to  carry  on 
such  an  extraordinary  conversation  with  such 
very  abrupt  changes — "the  Jews?" 

"Yes,  the  Jews." 

"Oh,  I  don't  like  them  at  all." 

"But  they're  the  chosen  people." 

"I  can't  help  that.  I  don't  like  them.  But 
then,  you  know,  I  never  really  saw  much  of 
them." 

"I  refer  to  their  future  prospects,"  said 
Tozer — "to  prophecy.  I  should  like  to  ask 
you  how  you  regard  them  in  that  light.  Do 
you  believe  in  a  spiritual  or  a  temporal  Zion  ?" 

"  Spiritual  Zion  ?     Temporal  Zion  ?" 

"Yes,  "m." 

"Well,  really,  I  don't  know.  I  don't  think  I 
believe  any  thing  at  all  about  it." 

"  But  you  must  believe  in  either  one  or  the 
other — you've  got  to,"  said  Tozer,  positively. 

"  But  I  don't,  you  know  ;  and  how  can  I  ?" 


Tozer  threw  at  her  a  look  of  commiseration, 
and  began  to  think  that  his  companion  was  not 
much  better  than  a  heathen.  In  his  own  home 
circle  he  could  have  put  his  hand  on  little  girls 
of  ten  who  were  quite  at  home  on  all  these  sub 
jects.  He  was  silent  for  a  time,  and  then  be 
gan  again. 

"I'd  like  to  ask  you  one  thing,"  said  he, 
"very  much." 

"  What  is  it?"  asked  Ethel. 

"Do  you  believe,"  asked  Tozer,  solemnly, 
"  that  we're  living  in  the  Seventh  Vial?" 

"Vial  ?  Seventh  Vial  ?"  said  Ethel,  in  fresh 
amazement. 

"Yes,  the  Seventh  Vial,"  said  Tozer,  in  a 
sepulchral  voice. 

' '  Living  in  the  Seventh  Vial  ?  I  really  don't 
know  how  one  can  live  in  a  vial." 

"The  Great  Tribulation,  you  know." 

"  Great  Tribulation  ?" 

"Yes;  for  instance,  now,  don't  you  believe 
in  the  Apocalyptic  Beast  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Ethel,  faintly. 

"Well,  at  any  rate,  you  believe  in  his  num 
ber — you  must." 

"His  number?" 

"Yes." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Why,  the  number  six,  six,  six — six  hun 
dred  and  sixty-six." 

"I  really  don't  understand  this,"  said  Ethel. 

"Don't  you  believe  that  the  Sixth  Vial  is 
done  ?" 

"  Sixth  Vial  ?     What,  another  vial  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  and  the  drying  of  the  Euphrates." 

"The  Euphrates?  drying?"  repeated  Ethel 
in  a  trembling  voice.  She  began  to  be  alarmed. 
She  felt  sure  that  this  man  was  insane.  She  had 
never  heard  such  incoherency  in  her  life.  And 
she  was  alone  with  him.  She  stole  a  timid  look, 
and  saw  his  long,  sallow  face,  on  which  there 
was  now  a  preoccupied  expression,  and  the  look 
did  not  reassure  her. 

But  Tozer  himself  was  a  little  puzzled,  and 
felt  sure  that  his  companion  must  have  her  own. 
opinions  on  the  subject,  so  he  began  again : 

"  Now  I  suppose  you've  read  Fleming  on  the 
Papacy  ?" 

"  No,  I  haven't.     I  never  heard  of  it." 

"  Strange,  too.  You've  heard  of  Elliot's 
'Hone  Apocalyptic^,'  I  suppose?" 

"No,"  said  Ethel,  timidly. 

"  Well,  it's  all  in  Gumming — and  you've  read 
him,  of  course?" 

"  Gumming?  I  never  heard  of  him.  Who 
is  he?" 

"  What,  never  heard  of  Gumming  ?" 

"Never." 

"  And  never  read  his  '  Great  Tribulation  ?' " 

"No." 

"  Nor  his  '  Great  Expectation  ?' " 

"No." 

"What!  not  even  his  'Apocalyptic  Sketch 
es?'" 

"  I  never  heard  of  them." 

Tozer  looked  at  her  in  astonishment ;  but  at 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"  TONITRUENBUM   EBT   MA  [.I'M  I 


this  moment  they  came  to  a  turn  in  the  road, 
when  a  sight  appeared  which  drew  from  Ethel 
an  expression  of  joy. 

It  was  a  little  valley  on  the  right,  in  which 
was  a  small  hamlet  with  a  church.  The  houses 
were  but  small,  and  could  not  give  them  much  ac 
commodation,  but  they  hoped  to  find  help  there. 

"I  wouldn't  trust  the  people,"  said  Ethel. 
"I  dare  say  they're  all  brigands;  but  there 
ought  to  be  a  priest  there,  and  we  can  ap 
peal  to  him." 

This  proposal  pleased  Tozer,  who  resumed 
his  work  of  collecting  among  the  stores  of  his 
memory  scraps  of  Latin  which  he  had  once 
stored  away  there. 

The  village  was  at  no  very  great  distance 
away  from  the  road,  and  they  reached  it  in  a 
short  time.  They  went  at  once  to  the  church. 
The  door  was  open,  and  a  priest,  who  seemed 
the  village  priest,  was  standing  there.  He  was 
stout,  with  a  good-natured  expression  on  his 
hearty,  rosy  face,  and  a  fine  twinkle  in  his 
eye,  which  lighted  up  pleasantly  as  he  saw  the 
strangers  enter. 


Tozer  at  once  held  out  his  hand  and  shook 
that  of  the  priest. 

"Buon  giorno,"  said  the  priest. 

Ethel  shook  her  head. 

"Parlate  Italiano?"  paid  he. 

Ethel  shook  her  head. 

"Salve,  domine,"  said  Tozer,  who  at  once 
plunged  headlong  into  Latin. 

"Salve  bene,"  said  the  priest,  in  some  sur 
prise. 

"Quomodo  vales?"  asked  Tozer. 

"Optime  valeo,  Dei  gratia.  Spero  vos  va- 
lere." 

Tozer  found  the  priest's  pronunciation  a  lit 
tle  difficult,  but  managed  to  understand  him. 

"Domine,"  said  he,  "  sumus  viatores  in- 
felices  et  innocentes,  in  quos  fures  nuper  itn- 
petum  fecerunt.  Omnia  bona  nostra  arripue- 
runt — " 

"Fieri  non  potest!"  said  the  priest. 

"  Et  omnes  amicos  nostros  in  captivitatem 
lachrymabilem  tractaverunt — " 

"Cor  dolet,"  said  the  priest;  "  miseret  me 
vestrum." 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


95 


"  Ctijusmodi  terra  est  haec  in  qua  sustenen- 
dum  est  tot  labores  ?" 

The  priest  sighed. 

"Tonitruendum  est  malum!"  exclaimed  To- 
zer,  excited  by  the  recollection  of  his  wrongs. 

The  priest  stared. 

"  In  hostium  manibus  fuimus,  et,  bonum  toni- 
tru !  omnia  impedimenta  amissimus.  Est  ni- 
mis  omnipotens  malum  I" 

"  Quid  vis  dicere  ?"  said  the  priest,  looking 
puzzled.  "  Quid  tibi  vis?" 

"Est  nimis  sempiternum  durum!" 

"  In  nomine  omnium  sanctorum  apostolorum- 
que,"  cried  the  priest,  "quid  vis  dicere?" 

"Potes  ne  juvare  nos,"  continued  Tozer,  "in 
hoc  lachrymabile  ternpore  ?  Volo  unum  verum 
vivum  virum  qui  possit — " 

"Diabolus  arripiat  me  si  possim  nnum  solum 
yerbum  intelligere !"  cried  the  priest.  "  Be  ja- 
bers  if  I  ondherstan'  yez  at  all  at  all ;  an'  there 
ye  have  it." 

And  with  this  the  priest  raised  his  head,  with 
its  puzzled  look,  and  scratched  that  organ  with 
such  a  natural  air,  and  with  such  a  full  Irish 
flavor  in  his  brogue  and  in  his  face,  that  both 
of  his  visitors  were  perfectly  astounded. 

"Good  gracious!"  cried  Tozer;  and  seizing 
the  priest's  hand  in  both  of  his,  he  nearly  wrung 
it  off.  "Why,  what  a  providence!  Why, 
really,  now!  And  you  were  an  Irishman  all 
the  time !  And  why  didn't  you  speak  English  ?" 

"  Sure  and  what  made  you  spake  Latin  ?" 
cried  the  priest.  "And  v.'hat  was  it  you  were 
thryin'  to  say  wid  yer  '  sempiternum  durum,' 
and  yer  'tonitruendum  malum?'  Sure  an'  ye 
made  me  fairly  profeen  wid  yer  talk,  so  ye  did." 

"Well,  I  dare  say,"  said  Tozer,  candidly — 
"  I  dare  say  'tain't  onlikely  that  J  did  introduce 
one  or  two  Americanisms  in  the  Latin ;  but 
then,  you  know,  I  ain't  been  in  practice." 

The  priest  now  brought  chairs  for  his  vis 
itors,  and,  sitting  thus  in  the  church,  they  told 
him  about  their  adventures,  and  entreated  him 
to  do  something  for  them.  To  all  this  the 
priest  listened  with  thoughtful  attention,  and 
when  they  were  done  he  at  once  promised  to 
find  horses  for  them  which  would  draw  the  car 
riages  to  this  hamlet  or  to  the  next  town. 
Ethel  did  not  think  Lady  Dalrymple  could  go 
further  than  this  place,  and  the  priest  offered 
to  find  some  accommodations. 

He  then  left  them,  and  in  about  half  an 
hour  he  returned  with  two  or  three  peasants, 
each  of  whom  had  a  horse. 

"  They'll  be  able  to  bring  the  leeclies,"  said  the 
priest,  "and  haul  the  impty  wagonsaftherthim.' 

"I  think,  miss,"  said  Tozer,  "that  you'd 
better  stay  here.  It's  too  far  for  you  to  walk.' 

"  Sure  an'  there's  no  use  in  the  wide  wurrulJ 
for  you  to  be  goin'  back,"  said  the  priest  to 
Ethel.  "You  can't  do  any  gud,  an'  you'd  bet 
ter  rist  till  they  come.  Yer  frind  '11  be  enough. ' 

Ethel  at  first  thought  of  walking  back,  but 
finally  she  saw  that  it  would  be  quite  useless, 
and  so  she  resolved  to  remain  and  wait  for  her 
aunt.  So  Tozer  went  off  with  the  men  and 


the  horses,  and  the  priest  asked  Ethel  all  about 
the  affair  once  more.  Whatever  his  opinions 
were,  he  said  nothing. 

While  he  was  talking  there  came  a  man  to 
the  door  who  beckoned  him  out.  He  went  out, 
and  was  gone  for  some  time.  He  came  back 
at  last,  looking  very  serious. 

"  I've  just  got  a  missage  from  thim,"  said  he. 

' '  A  message, "  exclaimed  Ethel,  "  from  them  ? 
What,  from  Girasole  ?" 

"  Yis.  They  want  a  praste,  and  they've  sint 
for  me." 

"A  priest?" 

"Yis ;  an'  they  want  a  maid-servant  to  wait 
on  the  young  leedies ;  and  they  want  thim  im- 
majitly  ;  an'  I'll  have  to  start  off  soon.  There's 
a  man  dead  among  thim  that  wants  to  be  put 
undherground  to-night,  for  the  rist  av  thim 
are  goin'  off  in  the  mornin' ;  an'  accordin'  to  all 
I  hear,  I  wouldn't  wondher  but  what  I'd  be 
wanted  for  somethin'  else  afore  mornin'." 

"  Oh,  my  God  !"  cried  Ethel ;  "  they're  going 
to  kill  him,  then!" 

"  Kill  him !  Kill  who  ?  Sure  an'  it's  not 
killin'  they  want  me  for.  It's  the  other — it's 
marryin'." 

"Marrying?"  cried  Ethel.  "Poor,  darling 
Minnie !  Oh,  you  can  not — you  will  not  marry 
them  ?" 

"  Sure  an'  I  don't  know  but  it's  the  best  thing 
I  can  do — as  things  are,"  said  the  priest. 

"Oh,  what  shall  I  do!  what  shall  I  do!" 
moaned  Ethel. 

"Well,  ye've  got  to  bear  up,  so  ye  have. 
There's  throubles  for  all  of  us,  an'  lots  av  thira 
too ;  an'  more'n  some  av  us  can  bear." 

Ethel  sat  in  the  darkest  and  bitterest  grief 
for  some  time,  a  prey  to  thoughts  and  fears  that 
were  perfect  agony  to  her. 

At  last  a  thought  came  to  her  which  made 
her  start,  and  look  up,  and  cast  at  the  priest  a 
look  full  of  wonder  and  entreaty.  The  priest 
watched  her  with  the  deepest  sympathy  visible 
on  his  face. 

"  We  must  save  them !"  she  cried. 

"  Sure  an'  it's  me  that  made  up  me  moind  to 
that  same,"  said  the  priest,  "  only  I  didn't  want 
to  rise  yer  hopes." 

"We  must  save  them,"  said  Ethel,  with 
strong  emphasis. 

"  We  f     What  can  you  do  ?" 

Ethel  got  up,  walked  to  the  church  door, 
looked  out,  came  back,  looked  anxiously  all 
around,  and  then,  resuming  her  seat,  she  drew 
close  to  the  priest,  and  began  to  whisper,  long 
and  anxiouslv. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  AVENGER  OK  THE  TRACK. 

WHEN  Dacres  had  sprung  aside  into  the  woods 
in  the  moment  of  his  fierce  rush  upon  Girasole, 
he  had  been  animated  by  a  sudden  thought 
that  escape  for  himself  was  possible,  and  that 
it  would  be  more  serviceable  to  his  friends. 


96 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


Thus,  then,  he  had  bounded  into  the  woods,  and 
with  swift  steps  he  forced  his  way  among  the 
trees  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  forest.  Some 
of  the  brigands  had  given  chase,  but  without 
effect.  Dacres's  .superior  strength  and  agility 
gave  him  the  advantage,  and  his  love  of  life 
was  a  greater  stimulus  than  their  thirst  for 
vengeance.  In  addition  to  this  the  trees  gave 
every  assistance  toward  the  escape  of  a  fugi 
tive,  while  they  threw  every  impediment  in  the 
way  of  a  pursuer.  The  consequence  was, 
therefore,  that  Dacres  soon  put  a  great  distance 
between  himself  and  his  pursuers,  and,  what  is 
more,  he  ran  in  such  a  circuitous  route  that 
they  soon  lost  all  idea  of  their  own  locality,  and 
had  not  the  faintest  idea  where  he  had  gone. 
In  this  respect,  however,  Dacres  himself  was 
not  one  whit  wiser  than  they,  for  he  soon  found 
himself  completely  bewildered  in  the  mazes  of 
the  forest;  and  when  at  length  the  deep  si 
lence  around  gave  no  further  sound  of  pursuers, 
he  sank  down  to  take  breath,  with  no  idea  what 
ever  in  what  direction  the  road  lay. 

After  a  brief  rest  he  arose  and  plunged  deep 
er  still  into  the  forest,  so  as  to  put  an  addition 
al  distance  between  himself  and  any  possible 
pursuit.  He  at  length  found  himself  at  the 
foot  of  a  precipice  about  fifty  feet  in  height, 
which  was  deep  in  the  recesses  of  the  forest. 
Up  this  he  climbed,  and  found  a  mossy  place 
among  the  trees  at  its  top,  where  he  could  find 
rest,  and  at  the  same  time  be  in  a  more  favor 
able  position  either  for  hearing  or  seeing  any 
signs  of  approaching  pursuers. 

Here,  then,  he  flung  himself  down  to  rest, 
and  soon  buried  himself  among  thoughts  of  the 
most  exciting  kind.  The  scene  which  he  had 
just  left  was  fresh  in  his  mind,  and  amidst  all 
the  fury  of  that  strife  there  rose  most  promi 
nent  in  his  memory  the  form  of  the  two  ladies, 
Minnie  standing  calm  and  unmoved,  while  Mrs. 
Willoughby  was  convulsed  with  agitated  feel 
ing.  What  was  the  cause  of  that  ?  Could  it  be 
possible  that  his  wife  had  indeed  contrived  such  a 
plot  with  the  Italian  ?  Was  it  possible  that  she 
had  chosen  this  way  of  striking  two  blows,  by 
one  of  which  she  could  win  her  Italian,  and  by 
the  other  of  which  she  could  get  rid  of  himself, 
her  husband?  Such  had  been  his  conjecture 
during  the  fury  of  the  fight,  and  the  thought 
had  roused  him  up  to  his  Berserker  madness ; 
but  now,  as  it  recurred  again,  he  saw  other 
things  to  shake  his  full  belief.  Her  agitation 
seemed  too  natural. 

Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  he  asked  himself, 
why  should  she  not  show  agitation  ?  She  was 
a  consummate  actress.  She  could  show  on  her 
beautiful  face  the  softness  and  the  tenderness 
of  an  angel  of  light  while  a  demon  reigned  in 
her  malignant  heart.  Why  should  she  not 
choose  this  way  of  keeping  up  appearances? 
She  had  betrayed  her  friends,  and  sought  her 
husband's  death ;  but  would  she  wish  to  have 
her  crime  made  manifest  ?  Not  she.  It  was 
for  this,  then,  that  she  wept  and  clung  to  the 
child-angel. 


Such  thoughts  as  these  were  not  at  all  adapt 
ed  to  give  comfort  to  his  mind,  or  make  his 
rest  refreshing.  Soon,  by  such  fancies,  he  kin 
dled  anew  his  old  rage,  and  his  blood  rose  to 
fever  heat,  so  that  inaction  became  no  longer 
tolerable.  He  had  rest  enough.  He  started 
up,  and  looked  all  around,  and  listened  attent 
ively.  No  sound  arose  and  no  sight  appeared 
which  at  all  excited  suspicion.  He  determined 
to  set  forth  once  more,  he  scarcely  knew  where. 
He  had  a  vague  idea  of  finding  his  way  back 
to  the  road,  so  as  to  be  able  to  assist  the  ladies, 
together  with  another  idea,  equally  ill  defined, 
of  coming  upon  the  brigands,  finding  the  Ital 
ian,  and  watching  for  an  opportunity  to  wreak 
vengeance  upon  this  assassin  and  his  guilty 
partner. 

He  drew  his  knife  once  more  from  a  leathern 
sheath  on  the  inside  of  the  breast  of  his  coat, 
into  which  he  had  thrust  it  some  time  before, 
and  holding  this  he  set  forth,  watchfully  and 
warily.  On  the  left  side  of  the  precipice  the 
ground  sloped  down,  and  at  the  bottom  of  this 
there  was  a  narrow  valley.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  this  might  be  the  course  of  some  spring 
torrent,  and  that  by  following  its  descent  he 
might  come  out  upon  some  stream.  With  this 
intention  he  descended  to  the  valley,  and  then 
walked  along,  following  the  descent  of  the 
ground,  and  keeping  himself  as  much  as  pos 
sible  among  the  thickest  growths  of  the  trees. 

The  ground  descended  very  gradually,  and 
the  narrow  valley  wound  along  among  rolling 
hills  that  were  covered  with  trees  and  brush.  As 
he  confined  himself  to  the  thicker  parts  of  this, 
his  progress  was  necessarily  slow ;  but  at  the 
end  of  that  turn  he  saw  before  him  unmistak 
able  signs  of  the  neighborhood  of  some  open 
place.  Before  him  he  saw  the  sky  in  such  a 
way  that  it  showed  the  absence  of  forest  trees. 
He  now  moved  on  more  cautiously,  and,  quit 
ting  the  valley,  he  crept  up  the  hill-slope  among 
the  brush  as  carefully  as  possible,  until  he  was 
at  a  sufficient  height,  and  then,  turning  toward 
the  open,  he  crept  forward  from  cover  to  cover. 
At  length  he  stopped.  A  slight  eminence  was 
before  him,  beyond  which  all  was  open,  yet 
concealed  from  his  view.  Descending  the  slope 
a  little,  he  once  more  advanced,  and  finally 
emerged  at  the  edge  Of  the  forest. 

He  found  himself  upon  a  gentle  declivity. 
Immediately  in  front  of  him  lay  a  lake,  circu 
lar  in  shape,  and  about  a  mile  in  diameter,  em 
bosomed  among  wooded  hills.  At  first  he  saw 
no  signs  of  any  habitation ;  but  as  his  eyes  wan 
dered  round  he  saw  upon  his  right,  about  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  away,  an  old  stone  house,  and 
beyond  this  smoke  curling  up  from  among  the 
forest  trees  on  the  borders  of  the  lake. 

The  scene  startled  him.  It  was  so  quiet,  so 
lonely,  and  so  deserted  that  it  seemed  a  fit 
place  for  a  robber's  haunt.  Could  this  be  in 
deed  the  home  of  his  enemies,  and  had  he 
thus  so  wonderfully  come  upon  them  in  the 
very  midst  of  their  retreat?  He  believed  that 
it  was  so.  A  little  further  observation  showed 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


97 


figures  among  the  trees  moving  to  and  fro,  and 
soon  he  distinguished  faint  traces  of  smoke  in 
other  places,  which  he  had  not  seen  at  first, 
as  though  there  were  more  fires  than  one. 

Dacres  exulted  with  a  fierce  and  vengeful 
joy  over  this  discovery.  He  felt  now  not  like 
the  fugitive,  but  rather  the  pursuer.  He  look 
ed  down  upon  this  as  the  tiger  looks  from  his 
jungle  upon  some  Indian  village.  His  foes 
were  numerous,  but  he  was  concealed,  and  his1 
presence  unsuspected.  He  grasped  his  dag 
ger  with  a  firmer  clutch,  and  then  pondered 
for  a  few  minutes  on  what  he  had  better  do 
next. 

One  thing  was  necessary  first  of  all,  and  that 
was  to  get  as  near  as  he  possibly  could  without 
discovery.  A  slight  survey  of  the  situation 
showed  him  that  he  might  venture  much  near 
er  ;  and  his  eye  ran  along  the  border  of  the  lake 
which  lay  between  him  and  the  old  house,  and 
he  saw  that  it  was  all  covered  over  with  a  thick 
fringe  of  trees  and  brush-wood.  The  narrow 
valley  along  which  he  had  come  ended  at  the 
shore  of  the  lake  just  below  him  on  his  right, 
and  beyond  this  the  shore  arose  again  to  a 
height  equal  to  where  he  now  was.  To  gain 
that  opposite  height  was  now  his  first  task. 

Before  starting  he  looked  all  around,  so  as  to 
be  sure  that  he  was  not  observed.  Then  he 
went  back  for  some  distance,  after  which  he 
descended  into  the  valley,  crouching  low,  and 
crawling  stealthily  among  the  brush -wood. 
Moving  thus,  he  at  length  succeeded  in  reaching 
the  opposite  slope  without  appearing  to  have  at 
tracted  any  attention  from  any  pursuers.  Up 
this  slope  he  now  moved  as  carefully  as  ever, 
not  relaxing  his  vigilance  one  jot,  but,  if  possi 
ble,  calling  into  play  even  a  larger  caution  as 
he  found  himself  drawing  nearer  to  those  whom 
he  began  to  regard  as  his  prey. 

Moving  up  this  slope,  then,  in  this  way,  he 
at  length  attained  the  top,  and  found  himself 
here  among  the  forest  trees  and  underbrush. 
They  were  here  even  denser  than  they  were  on 
the  place  which  he  had  just  left.  As  he  moved 
along  he  saw  no  indications  that  they  had  been 
traversed  by  human  footsteps.  Every  thing 
gave  indication  of  an  unbroken  and  undisturb 
ed  solitude.  After  feeling  his  way  along  here 
with  all  the  caution-  which  he  could  exercise, 
lie  finally  ventured  toward  the  shore  of  the  lake, 
and  found  himself  able  to  go  to  the  very  edge 
without  coming  to  any  open  space  or  crossing 
any  path. 

On  looking  forth  from  the  top  of  the  bank  he 
found  that  he  had  not  only  drawn  much  nearer 
to  the  old  house,  but  that  he  could  see  the  whole 
line  of  shore.  He  now  saw  that  there  were  some 
men  by  the  door  of  the  house,  and  began  to  sus 
pect  that  this  was  nothing  else  than  the  head 
quarters  and  citadel  of  the  brigands.  The  sight 
of  the  shore  now  showed  him  that  he  could  ap 
proach  very  much  nearer,  and  unless  the  brig 
ands,  or  whoever  they  were,  kept  scouts  out,  he 
would  be  able  to  reach  a  point  immediately 
overlooking  the  house,  from  which  he  could 
G 


survey  it  at  his  leisure.  To  reach  this  point 
became  now  his  next  aim. 

The  wood  being  dense,  Dacres  found  no  more 
difficulty  in  passing  through  this  than  in  travers 
ing  what  lay  behind  him.  The  caution  which 
he  exercised  here  was  as  great  as  ever,  and  his 
progress  was  as  slow,  but  as  sure.  At  length 
he  found  himself  upon  the  desired  point,  and, 
crawling  cautiously  forward  to  the  shore,  he 
looked  down  upon  the  very  old  house  which  he 
had  desired  to  reach. 

The  house  stood  close  by  the  lake,  upon  a 
sloping  bank  which  lay  below.  It  did  not  seem 
to  be  more  than  fifty  yards  away.  The  doors 
and  windows  were  gone.  Five  or  six  ill-look 
ing  fellows  were  near  the  doorway,  some  sprawl 
ing  on  the  ground,  others  lolling  and  lounging 
about.  One  glance  at  the  men  was  sufficient 
to  assure  him  that  they  were  the  brigands,  and 
also  to  show  him  that  they  kept  no  guard  or 
scout  or  outpost  of  any  kind,  at  least  in  this 
direction. 

Here,  then,  Dacres  lay  and  watched.  He 
could  not  wish  for  a  better  situation.  With  his 
knife  in  his  hand,  ready  to  defend  himself  in 
case  of  need,  and  his  whole  form  concealed 
perfectly  by  the  thick  underbrush  into  the 
midst  of  which  he  had  crawled,  he  peered  forth 
through  the  overhanging  leaves,  and  watched 
in  breathless  interest.  From  the  point  where 
he  now  was  he  could  see  the  shore  beyond  the 
house,  where  the  smoke  was  rising,  lie  could 
now  see  that  there  were  no  less  than  four  dif 
ferent  columns  of  smoke  ascending  from  as 
many  fires.  He  saw  as  many  as  twenty  or 
thirty  figures  moving  among  the  trees,  made 
conspicuous  by  the  bright  colors  of  their  cos 
tumes.  They  seemed  to  be  busy  about  some 
thing  which  he  could  not  make  out. 

Suddenly,  while  his  eye  roved  over  the  scene, 
it  was  struck  by  some  fluttering  color  at  the 
open  window  of  the  old  house.  He  had  not 
noticed  this  before.  He  now  looked  at  it  at 
tentively.  Before  long  he  saw  a  figure  cross  the 
window  and  return.  It  was  a  female  figure. 

The  sight  of  this  revived  all  that  agitation 
which  he  had  felt  before,  but  which  had  been 
calmed  during  the  severe  efforts  which  he  had 
been  putting  forth.  There  was  but  one  thought 
in  his  mind,  and  but  one  desire  in  his  heart. 

His  wife. 

He  crouched  low,  with  a  more  feverish  dread 
of  discovery  at  this  supreme  moment,  and  a 
fiercer  thirst  for  some  further  revelation  which 
might  disclose  what  he  suspected.  His  breath 
ing  came  thick  and  hard,  and  his  brow  lowered 
gloomily  over  his  gleaming  eyes. 

He  waited  thus  for  some  minutes,  and  the 
figure  passed  again. 

He  still  watched. 

Suddenly  a  figure  appeared  at  the  window. 
It  was  a  young  girl,  a  blonde,  with  short  gold 
en  curls.  The  face  was  familiar  indeed  to 
him.  Could  he  ever  forget  it?  There  it  was 
full  before  him,  turned  toward  him,  as  though 
that  one,  by  some  strange  spiritual  sympathy, 


98 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


was  aware  of  his  presence,  and  was  thus  turn 
ing  toward  him  this  mute  appeal.  Her  face 
was  near  enough  for  its  expression  to  be  visi 
ble.  He  could  distinguish  the  childish  face, 
with  its  soft,  sweet  innocence,  and  he  knew 
that  upon  it  there  was  now  that  piteous,  plead 
ing,  beseeching  look  which  formerly  had  so 
thrilled  his  heart.  And  it  was  thus  that  Da- 
cres  saw  his  child-angel. 

A  prisoner,  turning  toward  him  this  appeal ! 
What  was  the  cause,  and  what  did  the  Italian 
want  of  this  innocent  child?  Such  was  his 
thought.  What  could  his  fiend  of  a  wife  gain 
by  the  betrayal  of  that  angelic  being  ?  Was  it 
possible  that  even  her  demon  soul  could  com 
pass  iniquity  like  this?  He  had  thought  that 
he  had  fathomed  her  capacity  for  malignant 
wickedness ;  but  the  presence  here  of  the  child- 
angel  in  the  power  of  these  miscreants  showed 
him  that  this  capacity  was  indeed  unfathoma 
ble.  At  this  sudden  revelation  of  sin  so  enor 
mous  his  very  soul  turned  sick  with  horror. 

He  watched,  and  still  looked  with  an  anxiety 
that  was  increasing  to  positive  pain. 

And  now,  after  one  brief  glance,  Minnie  drew 
back  into  the  room.  There  was  nothing  more 
to  be  seen  for  some  time,  but  at  last  another 
figure  appeared. 

He  expected  this ;  he  was  waiting  for  it ;  he 
was  sure  of  it ;  yet  deep  down  in  the  bottom 
of  his  heart  there  was  a  hope  that  it  might  not 
be  so,  that  his  suspicions,  in  this  case  at  least, 
might  be  unfounded.  But  now  the  proof  came ; 
it  was  made  manifest  here  before  his  eyes,  and 
in  the  light  of  day. 

In  spite  of  himself  a  low  groan  escaped  him. 
He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  shut  out 
the  sight.  Then  suddenly  he  raised  his  head 
again  and  stared,  as  though  in  this  face  there 
was  an  irresistible  fascination  by  which  a  spell 
was  thrown  over  him. 

It  was  the  face  of  Mrs.  Willoughby — youth 
ful,  beautiful,  and  touching  in  its  tender  grace. 
Tears  were  now  in  those  dark,  luminous  eyes, 
but  they  were  unseen  by  him.  Yet  he  could 
mark  the  despondency  of  her  attitude ;  he  could 
see  a  certain  wild  way  of  looking  up  and  down 
and  in  all  directions ;  he  noted  how  her  hands 
grasped  the  window-ledge  as  if  for  support. 

And  oh,  beautiful  demon  angel,  he  thought, 
if  you  could  but  know  how  near  you  are  to  the 
avenger !  Why  are  you  so  anxious,  my  demon 
wife  ?  Are  you  impatient  because  your  Italian 
is  delaying?  Can  you  not  live  for  five  seconds 
longer  without  him?  Are  you  looking  in  all 
directions  to  see  where  he  is  ?  Don't  fret ;  he'll 
soon  be  here. 

And  now  there  came  a  confirmation  of  his 
thoughts.  He  was  not  surprised  ;  he  knew  it ; 
he  suspected  it.  It  was  all  as  it  should  be. 
Was  it  not  in  the  confident  expectation  of  this 
that  he  had  come  here  with  his  dagger — on 
their  trail? 

It  was  Girasole. 

He  came  from  the  place,  further  along  the 
shore,  where  the  brigands  were  around  their 


fires.  He  was  walking  quickly.  He  had  a 
purpose.  It  was  with  a  renewed  agony  that 
Dacres  watched  his  enemy — coming  to  visit  his 
wife.  The  intensity  of  that  thirst  for  venge 
ance,  which  had  now  to  be  checked  until  a  bet 
ter  opportunity,  made  his  whole  frame  tremble. 
A  wild  desire  came  to  him  then  and  there  to 
bound  down  upon  his  enemy,  and  kill  and  be 
killed  in  the  presence  of  his  wife.  But  the  oth 
er  brigands  deterred  him.  These  men  might 
interpose  and  save  the  Italian,  and  make  him  a 
prisoner.  No ;  he  must  wait  till  he  could  meet 
his  enemy  on  something  like  equal  terms — when 
he  could  strike  a  blow  that  would  not  be  in  vain. 
Thus  he  overmastered  himself. 

He  saw  Girasole  enter  the  house.  He  watch 
ed  breathlessly.  The  time  seemed  long  in 
deed.  He  could  not  hear  any  thing ;  the  con 
versation,  if  there  was  any,  was  carried  on  in  a 
low  tone.  He  could  not  see  any  thing  ;  those 
who  conversed  kept  quiet ;  no  one  passed  in 
front  of  the  window.  It  was  all  a  mystery,  and 
this  made  the  time  seem  longer.  At  length 
Dacres  began  to  think  that  Girasole  would 
not  go  at  all.  A  long  time  passed.  Hours 
went  away,  and  still  Girasole  did  not  quit  the 
house. 

It  was  now  sundown.  Dacres  had  eaten 
nothing  since  morning,  but  the  conflict  of  pas 
sion  drove  away  all  hunger  or  thirst.  The  ap 
proach  of  darkness  was  in  accordance  with  his 
own  gloomy  wishes.  -Twilight  in  Italy  is  short. 
Night  would  soon  be  over  all. 

The  house  was  on  the  slope  of  the  bank.  At 
the  corner  nearest  him  the  house  was  sunk  into 
the  ground  in  such  a  way  that  it  looked  as 
though  one  might  climb  into  the  upper  story 
window.  As  Dacres  looked  he  made  up  hU 
mind  to  attempt  it.  By  standing  here  on  tip 
toe  he  could  catch  the  upper  window-ledge 
with  his  hands.  He  was  strong.  He  was  tall. 
His  enemy  was  in  the  house.  The  hour  was 
at  hand.  He  was  the  man. 

Another  hour  passed. 

All  was  still. 

There  was  a  flickering  lamp  in  the  hall,  but 
the  men  seemed  to  be  asleep. 

Another  hour  passed. 

There  was  no  noise. 

Then  Dacres  ventured  down.  He  moved 
slowly  and  cautiously,  crouching  low,  and  thus 
traversing  the  intervening  space. 

He  neared  the  house  and  touched  it.  Be 
fore  him  was  the  window  of  the  lower  story. 
Above  him  was  the  window  of  the  upper  story. 
He  lifted  up  his  hands.  They  could  reach  the 
window-ledge. 

He  put  his  long,  keen  knife  between  his  teeth, 
and  caught  at  the  upper  window-ledge.  Ex 
erting  all  his  strength,  he  raised  himself  up  so 
high  that  he  could  fling  one  elbow  over.  For 
a  moment  he  hung  thus,  and  waited  to  take 
breath  and  listen. 

There  was  a  rush  below.  Half  a  dozen  shad 
owy  forms  surrounded  him.  He  had  been  seen. 
He  had  been  trapped. 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


He  dropped  down  and,  seizing  his  knife, 
struck  right  and  left. 

In  vain.  He  was  hurled  to  the  ground  and 
bound  tight. 


CHAPTER  XXVH. 

FACE   TO   FACE. 

HAWBCRY,  on  his  capture,  had  been  at  once 
taken  into  the  woods,  and  led  and  pushed  on 
by  no  gentle  hands.  He  had  thus  gone  on  un 
til  he  had  found  himself  by  that  same  lake  which 
others  of  the  party  had  come  upon  in  the  vari 
ous  ways  which  have  been  described.  Toward 
this  lake  he  was  taken,  until  finally  his  party 
reached  the  old  house,  which  they  entered.  It 
has  already  been  said  that  it  was  a  two-story 
house.  It  was  also  of  stone,  and  strongly 
built.  The  door  was  in  the  middle  of  it,  and 
rooms  were  on  each  side  of  the  hall.  The  in 
terior  plan  of  the  house  was  peculiar,  for  the 
hall  did  not  run  through,  but  consisted  of  a 
square  room,  and  the  stone  steps  wound  spi 
rally  from  the  lower  hall  to  the  upper  one. 
There  were  three  rooms  up  stairs,  one  taking 
up  one  end  of  the  house,  which  was  occupied 
by  Mrs.  Willoughby  and  Minnie;  another  in 
the  rear  of  the  house,  into  which  a  door  opened 
from  the  upper  hall,  close  by  the  head  of  the 
stairs;  and  a  third,  which  was  opposite  the 
room  first  mentioned. 

Hawbury  was  taken  to  this  house,  and  led 
np  stairs  into  this  room  in  the  rear  of  the  house. 
At  the  end  farthest  from  the  door  he  saw  a 
heap  of  straw  with  a  few  dirty  rugs  upon  it. 
In  the  wall  a  beam  was  set,  to  which  an  iron 
ring  was  fastened.  He  was  taken  toward  this 
bed,  and  here  his  legs  were  bound  together,  and 
the  rope  that  secured  them  was  run  around  the 
iron  ring  so  as  to  allow  of  no  more  motion  than 
a  few  feet.  Having  thus  secured  the  prisoner, 
the  men  left  him  to  his  own  meditations. 

The  room  was  perfectly  bare  of  furniture, 
nothing  being  in  it  but  the  straw  and  the  dirty 
rugs.  Hawbury  could  not  approach  to  the 
windows,  for  he  was  bound  in  a  way  which 
prevented  that.  In  fact,  he  could  not  move  in 
any  direction,  for  his  arms  and  legs  were  fast 
ened  in  such  a  way  that  he  could  scarcely  raise 
himself  from  where  he  was  sitting.  He  there 
fore  was  compelled  to  remain  in  one  position, 
and  threw  himself  down  upon  the  straw  on  his 
side,  with  his  face  to  the  wall,  for  he  found  that 
position  easier  than  any  other.  In  this  way  he 
lay  for  some  time,  until  at  length  he  was  roused 
by  the  sound  of  footsteps  ascending  the  stairs. 
Several  people  were  passing  his  room.  He 
heard  the  voice  of  Girasole.  He  listened  with 
deep  attention.  For  some  time  there  was  no 
reply.  At  length  there  was  the  sound  of  a 
woman's  voice — clear,  plain,  and  unmistaka 
ble.  It  was  a  fretful  voice  of  complaint.  Gi 
rasole  was  trying  to  answer  it.  After  a  time 
Girasole  left.  Then  all  was  still.  Then  Gi 
rasole  returned.  Then  there  was  a  clattering 


noise  on  the  stairs,  and  the  bumping  of  some 
heavy  weight,  and  the  heavy  breathing  of  men. 
Then  he  heard  Girasole  say  something,  after 
which  arose  Minnie's  voice,  close  by,  as  though 
she  was  in  the  hall,  and  her  words  were,  "Oh, 
take  it  away,  take  it  away!"  followed  by  long 
reproaches,  which  Hawbury  did  not  fully  under 
stand. 

This  showed  him  that  Minnie,  at  least,  was 
a  prisoner,  and  in  this  house,  and  in  the  ad 
joining  room,  along  with  some  one  whom  he 
rightly  supposed  was  Mrs.  Willoughby. 

After  this  there  was  a  further  silence  for 
some  time,  which  at  last  was  broken  by  fresh 
sounds  of  trampling  and  shuffling,  together  with 
the  confused  directions  of  several  voices  all 
speaking  at  once.  Hawbury  listened,  and 
turned  on  his  couch  of  straw  so  as  to  see  any 
thing  which  presented  itself.  The  clatter  and 
the  noise  approached  nearer,  ascending  the 
stairs,  until  at  last  he  saw  that  they  were  en 
tering  his  room.  Two  of  the  brigands  came 
first,  carrying  something  carefully.  In  a  few 
moments  the  burden  which  they  bore  was  re 
vealed. 

It  was  a  rude  litter,  hastily  made  fnom  bush 
es  fastened  together.  Upon  this  lay  the  dead 
body  of  a  man,  his  white  face  upturned,  and 
his  limbs  stiffened  in  the  rigidity  of  death. 
Hawbury  did  not  remember  very  distinctly  any 
of  the  particular  events  of  his  confused  struggle 
with  the  brigands ;  but  he  was  not  at  all  sur 
prised  to  see  that  there  had  been  one  of  the 
ruffians  sent  to  his  account.  The  brigands  who 
carried  in  their  dead  companion  looked  at  the 
captive  with  a  sullen  ferocity  and  a  scowling 
vengefulness,  which  showed  plainly  that  they 
would  demand  of  him  a  reckoning  for  their 
comrade's  blood  if  it  were  only  in  their  power. 
But  they  did  not  delay,  nor  did  they  make 
any  actual  demonstrations  to  Hawbury.  They 
placed  the  corpse  of  their  comrade  upon  the  floor 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  then  went  out. 

The  presence  of  the  corpse  only  added  to  the 
gloom  of  Hawbury's  situation,  and  he  once 
more  turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  so  as  to  shut 
out  the  sight.  Once  more  he  gave  himself  up 
to  his  own  thoughts,  and  so  the  time  passed 
slowly  on.  He  heard  no  sounds  now  from  the 
room  where  Miss  Fay  was  confined.  He  heard 
no  noise  from  the  men  below,  and  could  not  tell 
whether  they  were  still  guarding  the  door,  or 
had  gone  away.  Various  projects  came  to 
him,  foremost  among  which  was  the  idea  of 
escaping.  Bribery  seemed  the  only  possible 
way.  There  was  about  this,  however,  the  same 
difficulty  which  Mrs.  Willoughby  had  found — 
his  ignorance  of  the  language.  He  thought 
that  this  would  be  an  effectual  bar  to  any  com 
munication,  and  saw  no  other  alternative  than 
to  wait  Girasole's  pleasure.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  a  ransom  would  be  asked,  and  he  felt  sure, 
from  Girasole's  offensive  manner,  that  the  ran 
som  Avould  be  large.  But  there  was  no  help 
for  it.  He  felt  more  troubled  about  Miss  Fay, 
;  for  Girasole's  remarks  about  her  seemed  to 


100 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


point  to  views  of  his  own  which  were  incompat 
ible  with  her  liberation. 

In  the  midst  of  these  reflections  another  noise 
arose  below.  It  was  a  steady  tramp  of  two  or 
three  men  walking.  The  noise  ascended  the 
stairway,  and  drew  nearer  and  nearer.  Haw- 
bury  turned  once  more,  and  saw  two  men  enter- 
ingthe  room,  carrying  between  them  a  box  about 
six  feet  long  and  eighteen  inches  or  two  feet 
wide.  It  was  coarsely  but  strongly  made,  and 
was  undoubtedly  intended  as  a  coffin  for  the 
corpse  of  the  brigand.  The  men  put  the  coffin 
down  against  the  wall  and  retired.  After  a 
few  minutes  they  returned  again  with  the  coffin 
lid.  They  then  lifted  the  dead  body  into  the 
coffin,  and  one  of  them  put  the  lid  in  its  place 
and  secured  it  with  half  a  dozen  screws.  Aft 
er  this  Hawbury  was  once  more  left  alone.  He 
found  this  far  more  tolerable,  for  now  he  had 
no  longer  before  his  very  eyes  the  abhorrent 
sight  of  the  dead  body.  Hidden  in  its  coffin, 
it  no  longer  gave  offense  to  his  sensibilities. 
Once  more,  therefore,  Hawbury  turned  his 
thoughts  toward  projects  of  escape,  and  dis 
cussed  in  his  mind  the  probabilities  for  and 
against. 

The  day  had  been  long,  and  longer  still  did 
it  seem  to  the  captive  as  hour  after  hour  passed 
slowly  by.  He  could  not  look  at  his  watch, 
which  his  captors  had  spared ;  but  from  the 
shadows  as  they  fell  through  the  windows,  and 
from  the  general  appearance  of  the  sky,  he 
knew  that  the  close  of  the  day  was  not  far  off". 
He  began  to  wonder  that  he  was  left  so  long 
alone  and  in  suspense,  and  to  feel  impatient  to 
know  the  worst  as  to  his  fate.  Why  did  not 
some  of  them  come  to  tell  him  ?  Where  was 
Girasole  ?  Was  he  the  chief?  Were  the  brig 
ands  debating  about  his  fate,  or  were  they  thus 
leaving  him  in  suspense  so  as  to  make  him  de 
spondent  and  submissive  to  their  terms  ?  From 
all  that  he  had  ever  heard  of  brigands  and  their 
ways,  the  latter  seemed  not  unlikely ;  and  this 
thought  made  him  see  the  necessity  of  guard 
ing  himself  against  being  too  impatient  for  free 
dom,  and  too  compliant  with  any  demands  of 
theirs. 

From  these  thoughts  he  was  at  last  roused 
by  footsteps  which  ascended  the  stairs.  He 
turned  and  looked  toward  the  door.  A  man 
entered. 

It  was  Girasole. 

He  entered  slowly,  with  folded  arms,  and 
coming  about  half-way,  he  stood  and  surveyed 
the  prisoner  in  silence.  Hawbury,  with  a  sud 
den  effort,  brought  himself  up  to  a  sitting  pos 
ture,  and  calmly  surveyed  the  Italian. 

"  Well,"  asked  Hawbury,  "  I  should  like  to 
know  how  long  you  intend  to  keep  up  this  sort 
of  thing  ?  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ? 
Name  your  price,  man,  and  we'll  discuss  it,  and 
settle  upon  something  reasonable." 

"  My  price  ?"  repeated  Girasole,  with  pecul 
iar  emphasis. 

"  Yes.  Of  course  I  understand  you  fellows. 
It's  your  trade,  you  know.  You've  caught  me, 


and,  of  course,  you'll  try  to  make  the  best  of 
me,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  So  don't  keep 
me  waiting." 

"Inglis  milor,"  said  Girasole,  with  a  sharp, 
quick  accent,  his  face  flushing  up  as  he  spoke 
— "Inglis  milor,  dere  is  no  price  as  you  mean, 
an'  no  ransom.  De  price  is  one  dat  you  will 
not  wis  to  pay." 

"Oh,  come,  now,  my  good  fellow,  really  you 
must  remember  that  I'm  tied  up,  and  not  in  a 
position  to  be  chaffed.  Bother  your  Italian 
humbug!  Don't  speak  in  these  confounded 
figures  of  speech,  you  know,  but  say  up  and 
down — how  much?" 

"  De  brigands  haf  talk  you  ovair,  an*  dey  will 
haf  no  price." 

"  What  the  devil  is  all  that  rot  about  ?" 

"Dey  will  haf  youair  blood." 

"My  blood?" 

"Yes." 

"And  pray,  my  good  fellow,  what  good  is 
that  going  to  do  them  ?" 

"It  is  vengeance,"  said  Girasole. 

"Vengeance?  Pooh!  Nonsense!  What 
rot !  What  have  I  ever  done  ?" 

" Dat — dere — his  blood, " said  Girasole,  point 
ing  to  the  coffin. 

"  What !  that  scoundrel  ?  Why,  man  alive, 
are  you  crazy  ?  That  was  a  fair  stand-up  fight. 
That  is,  it  was  two  English  against  twenty  Ital 
ians,  if  you  call  that  fair ;  but  perhaps  it  is. 
His  blood!  By  Jove!  Cool,  that!  Come, 
I  like  it." 

"An'  more,"  said  Girasole,  who  now  grew 
more  excited.  "  It  is  not  de  brigand  who  con 
demn  you  ;  it  is  also  me.  I  condemn  you." 

"You?"'  said  Hawbury,  elevating  his  eye 
brows  in  some  surprise,  and  fixing  a  cool  stare 
upon  Girasole.  "And  what  the  devil's  this 
row  about,  I  should  like  to  know?  I  don't 
know  you.  What  have  you  against  me?" 

"Inglis  milor,"  cried  Girasole,  who  was 
stung  to  the  quick  by  a  certain  indescribable 
yet  most  irritating  superciliousness  in  Haw 
bury 's  tone — "Inglis  milor,  you  sail  see  what 
you  sail  soffair.  You  sail  die!  Dere  is  no 
hope.  You  are  condemn  by  de  brigand.  You 
also  are  condemn  by  me,  for  you  insult  me." 

"Well,  of  all  the  beastly  rot  I  ever  heard, 
this  is  about  the  worst !  What  do  you  mean 
by  all  this  infernal  nonsense  ?  Insult  you ! 
What  would  I  insult  you  for?  Why,  man 
alive,  you're  as  mad  as  a  March  hare!  If  I 
thought  you  were  a  gentleman,  I'd — by  Jove, 
I  will,  too !  See  here,  you  fellow:  I'll  fight 
you  for  it — pistols,  or  any  thing.  Come,  now. 
I'll  drop  all  considerations  of  rank.  I'll  treat 
you  as  if  you  were  a  real  count,  and  not  a  sham 
one.  Come,  now.  What  do  you  say  ?  Shall 
we  have  it  out?  Pistols — in  the  woods  there. 
You've  got  all  your  infernal  crew  around  you, 
you  know.  Well?  What?  You  won't?  By 
Jove!" 

Girasole's  gesture  showed  that  he  declined 
the  proposition. 

"  Inglis   milor,"  said  he,  with   a  venomous 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


101 


"iNGLIS  MILOB,  I   BALL   UAF  YOUAIB   LIFE." 


glitter  in  his  eyes,  "I  sail  haf  youair  life — wis 
de  pistol,  but  not  in  de  duello.  I  sail  blow  your 
brain  out  myself." 

"Blow  and  be  hanged,  then!"  said  Haw- 
bury. 

And  with  these  words  he  fell  back  on  his 
straw,  and  took  no  further  notice  of  the  Italian. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

TORN   ASUNDER. 

WHEN  Dacres  made  his  attempt  upon  the 
house  he  was  not  so  unobserved  as  he  supposed 
himself  to  be.  Minnie  and  Mrs.  Willotighby 
happened  at  that  time  to  be  sitting  on  the  floor 
by  the  window,  one  on  each  side,  and  they  were 
looking  out.  They  had  chosen  the  seat  as 
affording  some  prospect  of  the  outer  world. 
There  was  in  Mrs.  Willoughby  a  certain  in 
stinctive  feeling  that  if  any  rescue  came,  it 
would  come  from  the  land  side  ;  and,  therefore, 
though  the  hope  was  faint  indeed,  it  neverthe 


less  was  sufficiently  well  defined  to  inspire  her 
with  an  uneasy  and  incessant  vigilance.  Thus, 
then,  she  had  seated  herself  by  the  window, 
and  Minnie  had  taken  her  place  on  the  oppo 
site  side,  and  the  two  sisters,  with  clasped 
hands,  sat  listening  to  the  voices  of  the  night. 

At  length  they  became  aware  of  a  movement 
upon  the  bank  just  above  them  and  lying  op 
posite.  The  sisters  clasped  one  another's  hands 
more  closely,  and  peered  earnestly  through  the 
gloom.  It  was  pretty  dark,  and  the  forest 
threw  down  a  heavy  shadow,  but  still  their 
eyes  were  by  this  time  accustomed  to  the  dark, 
and  they  could  distinguish  most  of  the  objects 
there.  Among  these  they  soon  distinguished 
a  moving  figure  ;  but  what  it  was,  whether  man 
or  beast,  they  could  not  make  out. 

This  moving  figure  was  crawling  down  the 
bank.  There  was  no  cover  to  afford  conceal 
ment,  and  it  was  evident  that  he  was  trusting 
altogether  to  the  concealment  of  the  darkness. 
It  was  a  hazardous  experiment,  and  Mrs.  Wil 
loughby  trembled  in  suspense. 

Minnie,  however,  did  not  tremble  at  all,  nor 


102 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


was  the  suspense  at  all  painful.  When  Mrs. 
Willoughby  first  cautiously  directed  her  atten 
tion  to  it  in  a  whisper,  Minnie  thought  it  was 
some  animal. 

"Why,  Kitty  dear,"  she  said,  speaking  back 
in  a  whisper,  "why,  it's  an  animal;  I  wonder 
if  the  creature  is  a  wild  beast.  I'm  sure  I  think 
it's  very  dangerous,  and  no  doors  or  windows. 
But  it's  always  the  way.  He  wouldn't  give  me 
a  chair ;  and  so  I  dare  say  I  shall  be  eaten  up 
by  a  bear  before  morning." 

Minnie  gave  utterance  to  this  expectation 
without  the  slightest  excitement,  just  as  though 
the  prospect  of  becoming  food  for  a  bear  was 
one  of  the  very  commonest  incidents  of  her 
life. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  it's  a  bear." 

"  Well,  then,  it's  a  tiger  or  a  lion,  or  perhaps 
a  wolf.  I'm  sure  /  don't  see  what  difference 
it  makes  what  one  is  eaten  by,  when  one  has  to 
be  eaten." 

"It's  a  man!"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby,  tremu 
lously. 

"  A  man ! — nonsense,  Kitty  darling.  A  man 
walks  ;  he  doesn't  go  on  all-fours,  except  when 
he  is  very,  very  small. " 

"Hush!  it's  some  one  coming  to  help  us. 
Watch  him,  Minnie  dear.  Oh,  how  danger 
ous  !" 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  ?"  said  Minnie,  with 
evident  pleasure.  "Now  that  is  really  kind. 
But  I  wonder  who  it  can  be  ?" 

Mrs.  Willoughby  squeezed  her  hand,  and 
made  no  reply.  She  was  watching  the  slow 
and  cautious  movement  of  the  shadowy  figure. 

"  He's  coming  nearer ! "  said  she,  tremulously. 

Minnie  felt  her  sister's  hand  throb  at  the 
quick  movement  of  her  heart,  and  heard  her 
short,  quick  breathing. 

"Who  can  it  be,  I  wonder?"  said  Minnie, 
full  of  curiosity,  but  without  any  excitement  at 
all. 

"  Oh,  Minnie !" 

"What's  the  matter,  darling?" 

"It's  so  terrible." 

"What?" 

"This  suspense.     Oh,  I'm  so  afraid !" 

"  Afraid !     Why,  I'm  not  afraid  at  all." 

"Oh!  he'll  be  caught." 

"No,  he  won't,"  said  Minnie,  confidently. 
"I  knew  he'd  come.  They  always  do.  Don't 
be  afraid  that  he'll  be  caught,  or  that  he'll  fail. 
They  never  fail.  They  always  will  save  me. 
Wait  till  your  life  has  been  saved  as  often  as 
mine  has,  Kitty  darling.  Oh,  I  expected  it  all ! 
I  was  thinking  a  little  while  ago  he  ought  to  be 
here  soon." 

"He!    Who?" 

"Why,  any  person ;  the  person  who  is  going 
to  save  me  this  time.  I  don't  know,  of  course, 
who  he  is ;  some  horrid  man,  of  course.  And 
then — oh  dear! — I'll  have  it  all  over  again. 
He'll  carry  me  away  on  his  back,  and  through 
those  wretched  woods,  and  bump  me  against 
the  trees  and  things.  Then  he'll  get  me  to  the 
road,  and  put  me  on  a  horrid  old  horse,  and 


gallop  away.  And  by  that  time  it  will  be  morn 
ing.  And  then  he'll  propose.  And  so  there'll 
be  another.  And  I  don't  know  what  I  shall 
do  about  it.  Oh  dear!" 

Mrs.  Willoughby  had  not  heard  half  of  this. 
All  her  soul  was  intent  upon  the  figure  outside. 
She  only  pressed  her  sister's  hand,  and  gave  a 
warning  "  Hus-s-s-h !" 

"I  know  one  thing  I  do  wish,"  said  Minnie. 

Her  sister  made  no  reply. 

"  I  do  wish  it  would  turn  out  to  be  that  nice, 
dear,  good,  kind  Rufus  K.  Gunn.  I  don't  want 
any  more  of  them.  And  I'm  sure  he's  nicer 
than  this  horrid  Count,  who  wouldn't  take  the 
trouble  to  get  me  even  a  chair.  And  yet  he 
pretends  to  be  fond  of  me." 

"  Hus-s-s-h  !"  said  her  sister. 

But  Minnie  was  irrepressible. 

"I  don't  want  any  horrid  stranger.  But, 
oh,  Kitty  darling,  it  would  be  so  awfully  funny 
if  he  were  to  be  caught !  and  then  he  couldnt 
propose,  you  know." 

By  this  time  the  figure  had  reached  the 
house.  Minnie  peeped  over  and  looked  down. 
Then  she  drew  back  her  head  and  sighed. 

"Oh  dear!"  she  said,  in  a  plaintive  tone. 

"What,  darling?" 

"  Why,  Kitty  darling,  do  you  know  he  really 
looks  a  little  like  that  great,  big,  horrid  man 
that  ran  with  me  down  the  volcano,  and  then 
pretended  he  was  my  dear  papa.  And  here  he 
comes  to  save  me  again.  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ? 
Won't  you  pretend  you're  me,  Kitty  darling, 
and  please  go  yourself?  Oh,  ple-e-ease  do !" 

But  now  Minnie  was  interrupted  by  two 
strong  hands  grasping  the  window-sill.  A  mo- 
merit  after  a  shadowy  head  arose  above  it. 
Mrs.  Willoughby  started  back,  but  through  the 
gloom  she  was  able  to  recognize  the  strongly 
marked  face  of  Scone  Dacres. 

For  a  moment  he  stared  through  the  dark 
ness.  Then  he  flung  his  elbow  over. 

There  arose  a  noise  below.  There  was  a 
rush.  The  figure  disappeared  from  the  win 
dow.  A  furious  struggle  followed,  in  the  midst 
of  which  arose  fierce  oaths  and  deep  breathings, 
and  the  sound  of  blows.  Then  the  straggle 
subsided,  and  they  heard  footsteps  tramping 
heavily.  They  followed  the  sound  into  the 
house.  They  heard  men  coming  up  the  stairs 
and  into  the  hall  outside.  Then  they  all  moved 
into  the  front-room  opposite  theirs.  After  a 
few  minutes  they  heard  the  steps  descending 
the  stairs.  By  this  they  judged  that  the  pris 
oner  had  been  taken  to  that  room  which  was 
on  the  other  side  of  the  hall  and  in  the  front  of 
the  house. 

"There  dies  our  last  hope!"  said  Mrs.  Wil 
loughby,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  see  what  you're  crying 
about,"  said  Minnie.  "You  certainly  oughtn't 
to  want  me  to  be  carried  off  again  by  that  per 
son.  If  he  had  me,  he'd  never  give  me  up — es 
pecially  after  saving  me  twice." 

Mrs.  Willoughby  made  no  reply,  and  the  sis 
ters  sat  in  silence  for  nearly  an  hour.  They 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


103 


were  then  aroused  by  the  approach  of  footsteps 
which  entered  the  house ;  after  which  voices 
were  heard  below. 

Then  some  one  ascended  the  stairs,  and  they 
saw  the  flicker  of  a  light. 
It  was  Girasole. 

He  came  into  the  room  with  a  small  lamp, 
holding  his  hand  in  front  of  the  flame.  This 
lamp  he  set  down  in  a  corner  out  of  the  draught, 
and  then  turned  to  the  ladies. 

"Miladi,"  said  Girasole,  in  a  gentle  voice, 
"I  am  ver  pained  to  haf  to  tella  you  dat  it  is 
necessaire  for  you  to  separat  dis  night — till  to- 
niorra." 

"To  separate?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Willoughby. 
"  Only  till  to-morra,  miladi.  Den  you  sail 
be  togeder  foravva.  But  it  is  now  necessaire. 
Dere  haf  ben  an  attemp  to  a  rescue.  I  mus 
guard  again  dis — an"  it  mus  be  done  by  a  sep- 
arazion.  If  you  are  togeder  you  might  run. 
Dis  man  was  almos  up  here.  It  was  only 
chance  dat  I  saw  him  in  time." 

"Oh,  Sir,"  cried  Mrs.  Willonghby,  "you 
can  not — you  will  not  separate  us.  You  can 
not  have  the  heart  to.  I  promise  most  solemn 
ly  that  we  will  not  escape  if  you  only  leave  us 
together. " 

Girasole  shook  his  head. 
"I  can  not,"  said  he,  firmly;  "de  mees  is 
too  precious.  I  dare  not.  If  you  are  prison- 
aire  se  will  not  try  to  fly,  an'  so  I  secure  her 
de  more ;  but  if  you  are  togeder  you  will  find 
some  help.  You  will  bribe  de  men.  I  can 
not  trust  dem." 

"  Oh,  do  not  separate  us.  Tie  us.  Bind  us. 
Fasten  us  with  chains.  Fasten  me  with  chains, 
but  leave  me  with  her." 

"  Chains  ?  nonsance  ;  dat  is  impossibile. 
Chains  ?  no,  miladi.  You  sail  be  treat  beau 
tiful.  No  chain,  no;  notin  but  aifection — till 
to-morra,  an'  den  de  mees  sail  be  my  wife. 
De  priest  haf  come,  an'  it  sail  be  allaright  to- 
morra,  an'  you  sail  be  wit  her  again.  An'  now 
you  haf  to  come  away ;  for  if  you  do  not  be 
pleasant,  I  sail  not  be  able  to  'low  you  to  stay 
to-morra  wit  de  mees  when  se  become  my  Con- 
tessa." 

Mrs.  Willoughby  flung  her  arms  about  her 
sister,  and  clasped  her  in  a  convulsive  embrace. 
"Well,  Kitty  darling,"  said  Minnie,  "don't 
cry,  or  you'll  make  me  cry  too.  It's  just  what 
we  might  have  expected,  you  know.  He's  been 
as  unkind  as  he  could  be  about  the  chair,  and 
of  course  he'll  do  all  he  can  to  tease  me.  Don't 
cry,  dear.  You  must  go,  I  suppose,  since  that 
horrid  man  talks  and  scolds  so  about  it ;  only  be 
sure  to  be  back  early ;  but  how  I  am  ever  to 
pass  the  night  here  all  alone  and  standing  up, 
I'm  sure  /don't  know." 

"Alone?  Oh  no,"  said  Girasole.  "Charm 
ing  mees,  you  sail  not  be  alone ;  I  haf  guard  for 
dat.  I  haf  sent  for  a  maid." 

"  But  I  don't  want  any  of  your  horrid  olc 

maids.     I  want  my  own  maid,  or  none  at  all.' 

"  Se  sail  be  your  own  maid.     I  haf  sent  for 

her." 


"What,  my  own  maid ? — Dowlas ?" 

"I  am  ver  sorry,  but  it  is  not  dat  one.  It 
s  anoder — an  Italian." 

"  Well,  I  think  that  is  very  unkind,  when  you 
enow  I  can't  speak  a  word  of  the  language. 
3ut  you  always  do  all  you  can  to  tease  me. 
.  wish  I  had  never  seen  you." 

Girasole  looked  hurt. 

"  Charming  mees,"  said  he,  "  I  will  lay  down 
my  life  for  you. " 

"But  I  don't  want  you  to  lay  down  your  life. 
'.  want  Dowlas." 

"And  you  sail  haf  Dowlas  to-morra.  An' 
o-night  you  sail  haf  de  Italian  maid." 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  must,"  said  Minnie,  re 
signedly. 

"  Miladi,"  said  Girasole,  turning  to  Mrs. 
Willoughby,  "  I  am  ver  sorry  for  dis  leetle  ac- 
commodazion.  De  room  where  you  mus  go 
s  de  one  where  I  haf  put  de  man  dat  try  to 
safe  you.  He  is  tied  fast.  You  mus  promis 
you  will  not  loose  him.  Haf  you  a  knife  ?" 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby,  in  a  scarce  au 
dible  tone. 

"  Do  not  mourn.  You  sail  be  able  to  talk  to 
de  prisonaire  and  get  consolazion.  But  come. " 

With  these  words  Girasole  led  the  way  out 
nto  the  hall,  and  into  the  front-room  on  the 
opposite  side.  He  carried  the  lamp  in  his 
hand.  Mrs.  Willoughby  saw  a  figure  lying  at 
he  other  end  of  the  room  on  the  floor.  His 
face  was  turned  toward  them,  but  in  the  dark 
ness  she  could  not  see  it  plainly.  Some  straw 
was  heaped  up  in  the  corner  next  her. 

"Dere,"  said  Girasole,  "is  your  bed.  lam 
sorra.  Do  not  be  trouble." 

With  this  he  went  away. 

Mrs.  Willoughby  flung  herself  on  her  knees, 
and  b9wed  her  head  and  wept  convulsively. 
She  heard  the  heavy  step  of  Girasole  as  he 
went  down  stairs.  Her  first  impulse  was  to 
rush  back  to  her  sister.  But  she  dreaded  dis 
covery,  and  felt  that  disobedience  would  only 
make  her  fate  harder. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

FOUND  AT   LAST. 

IN  a  few  moments  Girasole  came  back  and 
entered  Minnie's  room.  He  was  followed  by  a 
woman  who  was  dressed  in  the  garb  of  an  Ital 
ian  peasant  girl.  Over  her  head  she  wore  a 
hood  to  protect  her  from  the  night  air,  the  limp 
folds  of  which  hung  over  her  face.  Minnie 
looked  carelessly  at  this  woman  and  then  at 
Girasole. 

"Charming  mees,"  said  Girasole,  "I  haf 
brought  you  a  maid  for  dis  night.  When  we 
leaf  dis  you  sail  haf  what  maid  you  wis." 

"  That  horrid  old  fright !"  said  Minnie.  "  I 
don't  want  her." 

"You  sail  only  haf  her  for  dis  night,"  said 
Girasole.  "  You  will  be  taken  care  for. " 

"I  suppose  nobody  cares  for  what  /  want," 


J04 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"ONE  ABM   WENT  ABOUND  11EK  NKOK." 

said  Minnie,  "  and  I  may  as  well  speak  to  the 
wall,  for  all  the  good  it  does." 

Girasole  smiled  and  bowed,  and  put  his  hand 
on  his  heart,  and  then  called  down  the  stairs : 

"  Padre  Patricio!" 

A  solid,  firm  step  now  sounded  on  the  stairs, 
and  in  a  few  moments  the  priest  came  up.  Gi 
rasole  led  the  way  into  Hawbury's  room.  The 
prisoner  lay  on  his  side.  He  was  in  a  deep 
sleep.  Girasole  looked  in  wonder  at  the  sleep 
er  who  was  spending  in  this  way  the  last  hours 
of  his  life,  and  then  pointed  to  the  coffin. 

"Here,"  said  he,  in  Italian,  "is  the  body. 
When  the  grave  is  dug  they  will  tell  you.  You 
must  stay  here.  You  will  not  be  afraid  to  be 
with  the  dead." 

The  priest  smiled. 

Girasole  now  retreated  and  went  down  stairs. 

Soon  all  was  still. 

The  Italian  woman  had  been  standing  where 
she  had  stopped  ever  since  she  first  came  into 
the  room.  Minnie  had  not  paid  any  attention 
to  her,  but  at  last  she  noticed  this. 

"I  with  you  wouldn't  stand  there  in  that 
way.  You  really  make  me  feel  quite  nervous. 
And  what  with  the  dark,  and  not  having  any 
light,  and  losing  poor  dear  Kitty,  and  not  hav 
ing  any  chair  to  sit  upon,  really  one's  life  is 
scarce  worth  having.  But  all  this  is  thrown 
away,  as  you  can't  speak  English — and  how  hor 
rid  it  is  to  have  no  one  to  talk  to." 

The  woman  made  no  reply,  but  with  a  quiet, 
stealthy  step  she  drew  near  to  Minnie. 

"  What  do  you  want?  You  horrid  creature, 
keep  away,"  said  Minnie,  drawing  back  in  some 
alarm. 


"Minnie  dear!  "said  the  woman.  "H-s-s-s-h!" 
she  added,  in  a  low  whisper. 

Minnie  started. 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  she  whispered. 

One  arm  went  around  her  neck,  and  another 
hand  went  over  her  mouth,  and  the  woman 
drew  nearer  to  her. 

"Not  a  word.  H-s-s-s-h!  I've  risked  my 
life.  The  priest  brought  me." 

"  Why,  my  darling,  darling  love  of  an  Ethel !" 
said  Minnie,  who  was  overwhelmed  with  sur 
prise. 

"H-s-s-s-h!" 

"But  how  can  I  h-s-s-s-h  when  I'm  so  per 
fectly  frantic  with  delight?  Oh,  you  darling 
pet!" 

"H-s-s-s-h!  Not  another  word.  I'll  be 
discovered  and  lost." 

"  Well,  dear,  I'll  speak  very,  very  low.  But 
how  did  you  come  here  ?" 

"The  priest  brought  me." 

"The  priest?" 

"  Yes.  He  was  sent  for,  you  know ;  and  I 
thought  I  could  help  you,  and  he  is  going  to 
save  you." 

"He!     Who?" 

"  The  priest,  you  know." 

"  The  priest !  Is  he  a  Roman  Catholic  priest, 
Ethel  darling?" 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"And  lie  is  going  to  save  me  this  time,  is 
he?" 

"I  hope  so,  dear." 

"  Oh,  how  perfectly  lovely  that  is !  and  it  was 
so  kind  and  thoughtful  in  you !  Now  this  is 
really  quite  nice,  for  you  know  I've  longed  so  to 
be  saved  by  a  priest.  These  horrid  men,  you 
know,  all  go  and  propose  the  moment  they  save 
one's  life  ;  but  a  priest  can't,  you  know — no,  not 
if  he  saved  one  a  thousand  times  over.  Can 
he  now,  Ethel  darling  ?" 

"Oh  no!"  said  Ethel,  in  a  little  surprise. 
"But  stop,  darling.  You  really  must  not  say 
another  word — no,  not  so  much  as  a  whisper — 
for  we  certainly  will  be  heard  ;  and  don't  notice 
what  I  do,  or  the  priest  either,  for  it's  very, 
very  important,  dear.  But  you  keep  as  still 
as  a  little  mouse,  and  wait  till  we  are  all 
ready." 

"  Well,  Ethel  dear,  I  will ;  but  it's  awfully 
funny  to  see  you  here — and  oh,  such  a  funny 
figure  as  you  are!" 

"H-s-s-s-h!" 

Minnie  relapsed  into  silence  now,  and  Ethel 
withdrew  near  to  the  door,  where  she  stood  and 
listened.  All  was  still.  Down  stairs  there 
was^io  light  and  no  sound.  In  the  hall  above 
she  could  see  nothing,  and  could  not  tell  wheth 
er  any  guards  were  there  or  not. 

Hawbury's  room  was  at  the  back  of  the  house, 
as  has  been  said,  and  the  door  was  just  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs.  The  door  where  Ethel  was 
standing  was  there  too,  and  was  close  by  the 
other,  so  that  she  could  listen  and  hear  the 
deep  breathing  of  the  sleeper.  One  or  two 
indistinct  sounds  escaped  him  from  time  to 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


10c 


time,  and  this  was  all  that  broke  the  deep  still 
ness. 

She  waited  thus  for  nearly  an  hour,  during 
which  all  was  still,  and  Minnie  said  not  a  word. 
Then  a  shadowy  figure  appeared  near  her  at 
Hawbury's  door,  and  a  hand  touched  her  shoul 
der. 

Not  a  word  was  said. 

Ethel  stole  softly  and  noiselessly  into  Haw 
bury's  room,  where  the  priest  was.  She  could 
see  the  two  windows,  and  the  priest  indicated  to 
her  the  position  of  the  sleeper. 

Slowly  and  cautiously  she  stole  over  toward 
him. 

She  reached  the  place. 

She  knelt  by  his  side,  and  bent  low  over  him. 
Her  lips  touched  his  forehead. 

The  sleeper  moved  slightly,  and  murmured 
some  words. 

"All  fire,"  he  murmured  ;  "  fire — and  flame. 
It  is  a  furnace  before  us.  She  must  not  die." 

Then  he  sighed. 

Ethel's  heart  beat  wildly.  The  words  that 
he  spoke  told  her  where  his  thoughts  were  wan 
dering.  She  bent  lower;  tears  fell  from  her 
eyes  and  upon  his  face. 

"My  darling,"  murmured  the  sleeper,  "we 
will  land  here.  I  will  cook  the  fish.  How  pale  ! 
Don't  cry,  dearest." 

The  house  was  all  still.  Not  a  sound  arose. 
Ethel  still  bent  down  and  listened  for  more  of 
these  words  which  were  so  sweet  to  her. 

"  Ethel !"  murmured  the  sleeper,  "  where  are 
you?  Lost!  lost!" 

A  heavy  sigh  escaped  him,  which  found  an 
echo  in  the  heart  of  the  listener.  She  touched 
his  forehead  gently  with  one  hand,  and  whis 
pered, 

"My  lord!" 

Hawbury  started. 

"What's  this?"  he  murmured. 

"A  friend,"  said  Ethel. 

At  this  Hawbury  became  wide  awake. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  whispered,  in  a  trem 
bling  voice.  "For  God's  sake — oh,  for  God's 
sake,  speak  again !  tell  me  !" 

"Harry,"  said  Ethel. 

Hawbury  recognized  the  voice  at  once. 

A  slight-rry  escaped  him,  which  was  instant 
ly  suppressed,  and  then  a  torrent  of  whispered 
words  followed. 

"  Oh,  my  darling !  my  darling  !  my  darling ! 
What  is  this  ?  How  is  this  ?  Is  it  a  dream  ? 
Oh,  am  I  awake  ?  Is  it  you  ?  Oh,  my  darling ! 
my  darling !  Oh,  if  my  arms  were  but  free !" 

Ethel  bent  over  him,  and  passed  her  arm 
around  him  till  she  felt  the  cords  that  bound 
him.  She  had  a  sharp  knife  ready,  and  with 
this  she  cut  the  cords.  Hawbury  raised  him 
self,  without  waiting  for  his  feet  to  be  freed, 
and  caught  Ethel  in  his  freed  arms  in  a  silent 
embrace,  and  pressed  her  over  and  over  again 
to  his  heart. 

Ethel  with  difficulty  extricated  herself. 

"There's  no  time  to  lose,"  said  she.  "I 
came  to  save  you.  Don't  waste  another  mo 


ment  ;  it  will  be  too  late.  Oh,  do  not !  Oh, 
wait!"  she  added,  as  Hawbury  made  another 
effort  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms.  "  Oh,  do  what 
I  say,  for  my  sake!" 

She  felt  for  his  feet,  and  cut  the  rest  of  his 
bonds. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?"  asked  Hawbury,  clasp 
ing  her  close,  as  though  he  was  afraid  that  he 
would  lose  her  again. 

"  Escape." 

"  Well,  come  !  I'll  leap  with  you  from  the 
window." 

"You  can't.  The  house  and  all  around 
swarms  with  brigands.  They  watch  us  all 
closely." 

"I'll  fight  my  way  through  them." 

"Then  you'll  be  killed, and  I'll  die." 

"Well,  I'll  do  whatever  you  say." 

"Listen,  then.     You  must  escape  alone." 

"What!  and  leave  you ?     Never!" 

"I'm  safe.  I'm  disguised,  and  a  priest  is 
with  me  as  my  protector." 

' '  How  can  you  be  safe  in  such  a  place  as 
this?" 

"I  am  safe.  Do  not  argue.  There  is  no 
time  to  lose.  The  priest  brought  me  here,  and 
will  take  me  away." 

"  But  there  are  others  here.  I  can't  leave 
them.  Isn't  Miss  Fay  a  prisoner  ?  and  anoth 
er  lady  ?" 

"Yes;  but  the  priest  and  I  will  be  able,  I 
hope,  to  liberate  them.  We  have  a  plan." 

"  But  can't  I  go  with  you  and  help  you  ?" 

"Oh  no!  it's  impossible.  You  could  not. 
We  are  going  to  take  them  away  in  disguise. 
We  have  a  dress.  You  couldn't  be  disguised." 

"And  must  I  go  alone?" 

"You  must." 

"  I'll  do  it,  then.  Tell  me  what  it  is.  But 
oh,  my  darling!  how  can  I  leave  you,  and  in 
such  a  place  as  this  ?" 

"  I  assure  you  I  am  not  in  the  slightest  dan 
ger." 

"  I  shall  feel  terribly  anxious. " 

"H-s-s-s-h!  no  more  of  this.    Listen  now." 

"  Well  ?" 

'  Ethel  bent  lower,  and  whispered  in  his  ear, 
in  even  lower  tones  than  ever,  the  plan  which 
she  had  contrived. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

A     DESPERATE     PLAN. 

ETHEL'S  plan  was  hastily  revealed.  The  po 
sition  was  exceedingly  perilous ;  time  was  short, 
and  this  was  the  only  way  of  escape. 

It  was  the  priest  who  had  concocted  it,  and 
he  had  thought  of  it  as  the  only  plan  by  which 
Hawbury's  rescue  could  be  effected.  This  in 
genious  Irishman  had  also  formed  another  plan 
for  the  rescue  of  Minnie  and  her  sister,  which 
was  to  be  attempted  in  due  course  of  time. 

Now  no  ordinary  mode  of  escape  was  possi 
ble  for  Hawbury.  A  strict  watch  was  kept. 


106 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


The  priest  had  noticed  on  his  approach  that 
guards  were  posted  in  different  directions  in 
such  a  way  that  no  fugitive  from  the  house 
could  elude  them.  He  had  also  seen  that  the 
guard  inside  the  house  was  equally  vigilant. 
To  leap  from  the  window  and  run  for  it  would 
be  certain  death,  for  that  was  the  very  thing 
which  the  brigands  anticipated.  To  make  a 
sudden  rush  down  the  stairs  was  not  possible, 
for  at  the  door  below  there  were  guards ;  and 
there,  most  vigilant  of  all,  was  Girasole  himself. 

The  decision  of  the  Irish  priest  was  correct, 
as  has  been  proved  in  the  case  of  Dacres,  who, 
in  spite  of  all  his  caution,  was  observed  and 
captured.  Of  this  the  priest  knew  nothing,  but 
judged  from  what  he  himself  had  seen  on  his 
approach  to  the  house. 

The  plan  of  the  priest  had  been  hastily  com 
municated  to  Ethel,  who  shared  his  convictions 
and  adopted  his  conclusions.  She  also  had 
noticed  the  vigilance  with  which  the  guard  had 
been  kept  up,  and  only  the  fact  that,  a  woman 
had  been  sent  for  and  was  expected  with  the 
priest  had  preserved  her  from  discovery  and  its 
consequences.  As  it  was,  however,  no  notice 
Was  taken  of  her,  and  her  pretended  character 
was  assumed  to  be  her  real  one.  Even  Girasole 
had  scarcely  glanced  at  her.  A  village  peasant 
was  of  no  interest  in  his  eyes.  His  only  thought 
was  of  Minnie,  and  the  woman  that  the  priest 
brought  was  only  used  as  a  desperate  effort  to 
show  a  desire  for  her  comfort.  After  he  had 
decided  to  separate  the  sisters  the  woman  was 
of  more  importance ;  but  he  had  nothing  to 
say  to  her,  and  thus  Ethel  had  effected  her  en 
trance  to  Minnie's  presence  in  safety,  with  the 
result  that  has  been  described. 

The  priest  had  been  turning  over  many  proj 
ects  in  his  brain,  but  at  last  one  suggested  it 
self  which  had  originated  in  connection  with  the 
very  nature  of  his  errand. 

One  part  of  that  errand  was  that  a  man  should 
be  conveyed  out  of  the  house  and  carried  away 
and  left  in  a  certain  place.  Now  the  man  who 
was  thus  to  be  carried  out  was  a  dead  man,  and 
the  certain  place  to  which  he  was  to  be  borne 
and  where  he  was  to  be  left  was  the  grave ;  but 
these  stern  facts  did  not  at  all  deter  the  Irish 
priest  from  trying  to  make  use  of  this  task  that 
lay  before  him  for  the  benefit  of  Hawbury. 

Here  was  a  problem.  A  prisoner  anxious 
for  escape,  and  a  dead  man  awaiting  burial ; 
how  were  these  two  things  to  be  exchanged  so 
that  the  living  man  might  pass  out  without  go 
ing  to  the  grave  ? 

The  Irish  priest  puzzled  and  pondered  and 
grew  black  in  the  face  with  his  efforts  to  get  to 
the  solution  of  this  problem,  and  at  length 
succeeded — to  his  own  satisfaction,  at  any  rate. 
What  is  more,  when  he  explained  his  plan  to 
Ethel,  she  adopted  it.  She  started,  it  is  true ; 
she  shuddered,  she  recoiled  from  it  at  first,  but 
finally  she  adopted  it.  Furthermore,  she  took 
it  upon  herself  to  persuade  Hawbury  to  fall  in 
with  it. 

So  much  with  regard   to   Hawbury.      For 


Minnie  and  her  sister  the  indefatigable  priest 
had  already  concocted  a  plan  before  leaving 
home.  This  was  the  very  commonplace  plan 
of  a  disguise.  It  was  to  be  an  old  woman's  ap 
parel,  and  he  trusted  to  the  chapter  of  accidents 
to  make  the  plan  a  success.  He  noticed  with 
pleasure  that  some  women  were  at  the  place, 
and  thought  that  the  prisoners  might  be  con 
founded  with  them. 

When  at  length  Ethel  had  explained  the  plan 
to  Hawbury  he  made  a  few  further  objections, 
but  finally  declared  himself  ready  to  carrv-  it 
out. 

The  priest  now  began  to  put  his  project  into 
execution.  He  had  brought  a  screw -driver 
with  him,  and  with  this  he  took  out  the  screws 
from  the  coffin  one  by  one,  as  quietly  as  possi 
ble. 

Then  the  lid  was  lifted  off,  and  Hawbury 
arose  and  helped  the  priest  to  transfer  the 
corpse  from  the  coffin  to  the  straw.  They  then 
put  the  corpse  on  its  side,  with  the  face  to  the 
wall,  and  bound  the  hands  behind  it,  and  the 
feet  also.  The  priest  then  took  Hawbury's 
handkerchief  and  bound  it  around  the  head  of 
the  corpse.  One  or  two  rugs  that  lay  near  were 
thrown  over  the  figure,  so  that  it  at  length  look 
ed  like  a  sleeping  man. 

Hawbury  now  got  into  the  coffin  and  lay 
down  on  his  back  at  full  length.  The  priest 
had  brought  some  bits  of  wood  with  him,  and 
these  he  put  on  the  edge  of  the  coffin  in  such  a 
way  that  the  lid  would  be  kept  off  at  a  distance 
of  about  a  quarter  of  an  inch.  Through  this 
opening  Hawbury  could  have  all  the  air  that 
was  requisite  for  breathing. 

Then  Ethel  assisted  the  priest  to  lift  the  lid 
on. 

Thus  far  all  had  been  quiet ;  but  now  a  slight 
noise  was  heard  below.  Some  men  were  mov 
ing.  Ethel  was  distracted  with  anxiety,  but 
the  priest  was  as  cool  as  a  clock.  He  whis 
pered  to  her  to  go  back  to  the  room  where  she 
belonged. 

"  Will  you  be  able  to  finish  it  ?"  she  asked. 

"Sure  an'  I  will — only  don't  you  be  afther 
stayin'  here  any  longer." 

At  this  Ethel  stole  back  to  Minnie's  room, 
and  stood  listening  with  a  quick-beating  heart. 

But  the  priest  worked  coolly  and  dextrous- 
ly.  He  felt  for  the  holes  to  which  the  screws  be 
longed,  and  succeeded  in  putting  in  two  of 
them. 

Then  there  was  a  noise  in  the  hall  below. 

The  priest  began  to  put  in  the  third  screw. 

There  were  footsteps  on  the  stairs. 

He  screwed  on. 

Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  steps. 

The  priest  still  kept  to  his  task. 

At  last  a  man  entered  the  room.  Ethel, 
who  had  heard  all,  was  faint  with  anxiety.  She 
was  afraid  that  the  priest  had  not  finished  his 
task. 

Her  fears  were  groundless. 

Just  as  the  foremost  of  the  men  entered  the 
room  the  priest  finished  screwing,  and  stood  by 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


107 


the  coffin,  having  slipped  the  screw-driver  into 
his  pocket,  as  calm  as  though  nothing  had  hap 
pened.  Three  of  the  screws  were  in,  and  that 
was  as  many  as  were  needed. 

The  men  brought  no  light  with  them,  and 
this  circumstance  was  in  the  priest's  favor. 

"You've  been  keeping  me  waiting  long," 
said  the  priest,  in  Italian. 

"You  may  be  glad  it  wasn't  longer,"  said 
one  of  them,  in  a  sullen  tone.  "Where  is  it?" 

"Here,"  said  the  priest. 

The  men  gathered  around  the  coffin,  and 
stooped  down  over  it,  one  at  each  corner. 
Then  they  raised  it  up.  Then  they  carried  it 
out ;  and  soon  the  heavy  steps  of  the  men  were 
heard  as  they  went  down  the  stairs  with  their 
burden. 

Ethel  still  stood  watching  and  listening. 

As  she  listened  she  heard  some  one  ascend 
ing  the  stairs.  New  terror  arose.  Something 
was  wrong,  and  all  would  be  discovered.  But 
the  man  who  came  up  had  no  light,  and  that 
was  one  comfort.  She  could  not  see  who  it  was. 

The  man  stopped  for  a  moment  in  front  of 
Minnie's  door,  and  stood  so  close  to  her  that 
she  heard  his  breathing.  It  was  quick  and 
heavy,  like  the  breathing  of  a  very  tired  or  a  very 
excited  man.  Then  he  turned  away  and  went 
to  the  door  of  the  front-room  opposite.  Here 
he  also  stood  for  a  few  moments. 

All  was  still. 

Then  he  came  back,  and  entered  Hawbury's 
room. 

Now  the  crisis  had  come — the  moment  when 
all  might  be  discovered.  And  if  so,  they  all 
were  lost.  Ethel  bent  far  forward  and  tried 
to  peer  through  the  gloom.  She  saw  the  dark 
figure  of  the  new-comer  pass  by  one  of  the  win 
dows,  and  by  the  outline  she  knew  that  it  was 
Girasole.  He  passed  on  into  the  shadow,  and 
toward  the  place  where  the  straw  was.  She 
could  not  see  him  any  more. 

Girasole  stepped  noiselessly  and  cautiously, 
as  though  fearful  of  waking  the  sleeper.  At 
every  step  he  paused  and  listened.  The  si 
lence  reassured  him. 

He  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  his  left  hand 
groping  forward,  and  his  right  hand  holding 
a  pistol.  His  movements  were  perfectly  noise 
less. 

His  own  excitement  was  now  intense,  his 
heart  throbbed  fiercely  and  almost  painfully  as 
he  approached  his  victim. 

At  last  he  reached  the  spot,  and  knelt  on  one 
knee.  He  listened  for  a  moment.  There  was 
no  noise  and  no  movement  on  the  part  of  the 
figure  before  him. 

In  the  gloom  he  could  see  the  outline  of  that 
figure  plainly.     It  lay  on  its  side,  curled  up  in 
the  most  comfortable  attitude  which  could  be 
assumed,  where  arms  and  legs  were  bound. 
"How  soundly  he  sleeps!"  thought  Girasole. 
He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  seemed  to  hes 
itate  ;  but  it  was  only  for  a  moment.     Then, 
summing  up  his  resolution,  he  held  his  pistol 
close  to  the  head  of  the  figure,  and  fired. 


"HE  HELD  nis  PISTOL  CLOSE  TO  THE  BEAD,  AXD  FIRED." 

The  loud  report  echoed  through  the  house. 
A  shriek  came  from  Minnie's  room,  and  a  cry 
came  from  Mrs.  Willoughby,  who  sprang  to 
ward  the  hall.  But  Girasole  came  out  and  in 
tercepted  her. 

"Eet  ees  notin,"  said  he,  in  a  tremulous 
voice.  "  Eet  ees  all  ovair.  Eet  ees  only  a 
false  alarm." 

Mrs.  Willoughby  retreated  to  her  room,  and 
Minnie  said  nothing.  As  for  Ethel,  the  sus 
pense  with  her  had  passed  away  as  the  report 
of  the  pistol  came  to  her  ears. 

Meanwhile  the  coffin  was  carried  out  of  the 
house,  and  the  men,  together  with  the  priest, 
walked  on  toward  a  place  further  up  the  shore 
and  on  the  outskirts  of  the  woods.  They  reach 
ed  a  place  where  a  grave  was  dug. 

At  this  moment  a  pistol-shot  sounded.  The 
priest  stopped,  and  the  men  stopped  also.  They 
did  not  understand  it.  The  priest  did  not 
know  the  cause  of  the  shot,  but  seeing  the 
alarm  of  the  men  he  endeavored  to  excite  their 
fears.  One  of  the  men  went  back,  and  was 
cursed  by  Girasole  for  his  pains.  So  he  re 
turned  to  the  grave,  cursing  every  body. 

The  coffin  was  now  lowered  into  the  grave, 
and  the  priest  urged  the  men  to  go  away  and 
let  him  finish  the  work ;  but  they  refused. 
The  fellows  seemed  to  have  some  affection  for 
their  dead  comrade,  and  wished  to  show  it  by 
putting  him  underground,  and  doing  the  last 
honors.  So  the  efforts  of  the  Irish  priest, 
though  very  well  meant,  and  very  urgent,  and 
very  persevering,  did  not  meet  with  that  suc 
cess  which  he  anticipated. 

Suddenly  he  stopped  in  the  midst  of  the 
burial  service,  which  he  was  prolonging  to  the 
utmost. 

"Hark!"  he  cried,  in  Italian. 


108 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"What?"  they  asked. 

"It's  a  gun!     It's  an  alarm!" 

"There's  no  gun,  and  no  alarm,"  said  they. 

All  listened,  but  there  was  no  repetition  of 
the  sound,  and  the  priest  went  on. 

He  had  to  finish  it. 

He  stood  trembling  and  at  his  wit's  end. 
Already  the  men  began  to  throw  in  the  earth. 

But  now  there  came  a  real  alarm. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

DISCOVERED. 

THE  report  of  the  pistol  had  startled  Minnie, 
and  for  a  moment  had  greatly  agitated  her. 
The  cry  of  Mrs.  Willoughby  elicited  a  response 
from  her  to  the  effect  that  all  was  right,  and 
would,  no  doubt,  have  resulted  in  a  conversa 
tion,  had  it  not  been  prevented  by  Girasole. 

Minnie  then  relapsed  into  silence  for  a  time, 
and  Ethel  took  a  seat  by  her  side  on  the  floor, 
for  Minnie  would  not  go  near  the  straw,  and 
then  the  two  interlocked  their  arms  in  an  af 
fectionate  embrace. 

"Ethel  darling,"  whispered  Minnie,  "do 
you  know  I'm  beginning  to  get  awfully  tired  of 
this  ?" 

"I  should  think  so,  poor  darling!" 

"  If  I  only  had  some  place  to  sit  on,"  said 
Minnie,  still  reverting  to  her  original  griev 
ance,  "it  wouldn't  be  so  very  bad,  you  know. 
I  could  put  up  with  not  having  a  bed,  or  a  sofa, 
or  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know ;  but  really  I 
must  say  not  to  have  any  kind  of  a  seat  seems 
to  me  to  be  very,  very  inconsiderate,  to  say  the 
least  of  it. " 

"Poor  darling!"  said  Ethel  again. 

"And  now  do  you  know,  Ethel  dear,  I'm  be 
ginning  to  feel  as  though  I  should  really  like 
to  ran  away  from  this  place,  if  I  thought  that 
horrid  man  wouldn't  see  me  ?" 

"  Minnie  darling,"  said  Ethel,  "  that's  the 
very  thing  I  came  for,  you  know." 

"Oh  yes,  I  know!  And  that  dear,  nice, 
good,  kind,  delightful  priest!  Oh,  it  was  so 
nice  of  you  to  think  of  a  priest,  Ethel  dear ! 
I'm  so  grateful !  But  when  is  he  coming  ?" 

"Soon,  I  hope.    But  do  try  not  to  talk  so." 

"But  I'm  only  whispering." 

"Yes,  but  your  whispers  are  too  loud,  and 
I'm  afraid  they'll  hear." 

"Well,  I'll  try  to  keep  still;  but  it's  so  aw 
fully  hard,  you  know,  when  one  has  so  much  to 
say,  Ethel  dear." 

Minnie  now  remained  silent  for  about  five 
minutes. 

"  How  did  you  say  yon  were  going  to  take 
me  away  ?"  she  asked  at  length. 

"In  disguise,"  said  Ethel. 

"But  what  disguise?" 

"In  an  old  woman's  dress — but  hu-s-s-s-sh !" 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  be  dressed  up  in  an  old 
woman's  clothes ;  they  make  me  such  a  figure. 
Why,  I'd  be  a  perfect  fright." 


"  Hu-s-s-s-sh !  Dear,  dear  Minnie,  you're 
talking  too  loud.  They'll  certainly  hear  us," 
said  Ethel,  in  a  low,  frightened  whisper. 

"But  do — do  promise  you  won't  take  me  in 
an  old  woman's  clothes !" 

"Oh,  there — there  it  is  again!"  said  Ethel. 
"Dear,  dear  Minnie,  there's  some  one  listen 
ing." 

"Well,  I  don't  see  what  harm  there  is  in 
what  I'm  saying.  I  only  wanted — " 

Here  there  was  a  movement  on  the  stairs 
just  outside.  Ethel  had  heard  a  sound  of  that 
kind  two  or  three  times,  and  it  had  given  her 
alarm  ;  but  now  Minnie  herself  heard  it,  and 
stopped  speaking. 

And  now  a  voice  sounded  from  the  stairs. 
Some  Italian  words  were  spoken,  and  seemed 
to  be  addressed  to  them.  Of  course  they  could 
make  no  reply.  The  words  were  repeated, 
with  others,  and  the  speaker  seemed  to  be  im 
patient.  Suddenly  it  flashed  across  Ethel's 
mind  that  the  speaker  was  Girasole,  and  that 
the  words  were  addressed  to  her. 

Her  impression  was  correct,  and  the  speaker 
was  Girasole.  He  had  heard  the  sibilant  sounds 
of  the  whispering,  and,  knowing  that  Minnie 
could  not  speak  Italian,  it  had  struck  him  as 
being  a  very  singular  thing  that  she  should  be 
whispering.  Had  her  sister  joined  her  ?  He 
thought  he  would  go  up  and  see.  So  he  went 
up  softly,  and  the  whispering  still  went  on.  He 
therefore  concluded  that  the  "Italian  woman" 
was  not  doing  her  duty,  and  that  Mrs.  Wil 
loughby  had  joined  her  sister.  This  he  would 
not  allow ;  but  as  he  had  already  been  suffi 
ciently  harsh  he  did  not  wish  to  be  more  so, 
and  therefore  he  called  to  the  "  Italian  woman." 

"Hallo,  you  woman  there!  didn't  I  tell  you 
not  to  let  the  ladies  speak  to  one  another?" 

Of  course  no  answer  was  given,  so  Girasole 
grew  more  angry  still,  and  cried  out  again, 
more  imperatively : 

"  Why  do  you  not  answer  me  ?  Where  are 
you  ?  Is  this  the  way  you  watch  ?" 

Still  there  was  no  answer.  Ethel  heard,  and 
by  this  time  knew  what  his  suspicion  was ;  but 
she  could  neither  do  nor  say  any  thing. 

"  Come  down  here  at  once,  you  hag !" 

But  the  "hag''  did  not  come  down,  nor  did 
she  give  any  answer.  The  "  hag"  was  trem 
bling  violently,  and  saw  that  all  was  lost.  If 
the  priest  were  only  here !  If  she  could  only 
have  gone  and  returned  with  him !  What  kept 
him? 

Girasole  now  came  to  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
and  spoke  to  Minnie. 

"  Charming  mees,  are  you  awake  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Minnie. 

"  Ees  your  sistaire  wit  you  ?" 

"No.  How  can  she  be  with  me,  I  should 
like  to  know,  when  you've  gone  and  put  her  in 
some  horrid  old  room  ?" 

"  Ah  !  not  wit  you  ?  Who  are  you  whisper- 
in'  to,  den  ?" 

Minnie  hesitated. 

"To  my  maid,"  said  she. 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


109 


WHAT  BIT  YOU   OOMB   FOB?" — "  FOB  HEB.' 


"  Does  de  maid  spik  Inglis  ?"  asked  Girasole. 

"Yes, "said  Minnie. 

"Ah!  I  did  not  know  eet.  I  mus  have  a 
look  at  de  contadina  who  spiks  Inglis.  Come 
here,  Italiana.  You  don't  spik  Italiano,  I  link. 
Come  here." 

Ethel  rose  to  her  feet. 

Girasole  ran  down,  and  came  back  after  a 
few  minutes  with  a  lamp.  Concealment  was 
useless,  and  so  Ethel  did  not  cover  her  face 
with  the  hood.  It  had  fallen  off  when  she  was 
sitting  by  Minnie,  and  hung  loosely  down  her 
shoulders  from  the  strings  which  were  around 
her  neck.  Girasole  recognized  her  at  one 
glance. 

"Ah  !"  said  he ;  and  then  he  stood  thinking. 
As  for  Ethel,  now  that  the  suspense  was  over 
and  the  worst  realized,  her  agitation  ceased. 
She  stood  looking  at  him  with  perfect  calm. 

"  What  dit  you  come  for?"  he  asked. 

"For  her"  said  Ethel,  making  a  gesture  to 
ward  Minnie. 

"What  could  you  do  wit  her?" 

"I  could  see  her  and  comfort  her." 

"  Ah !  an'  you  hope  to  make  her  escape.    Ha, 


ha !  ver  well.  You  mus  not  complain  eef  you 
haf  to  soffair  de  consequence.  Aha !  an'  so 
de  priest  bring  you  here — ha  ?" 

Ethel  was  silent. 

"  Ah !  you  fear  to  say — you  fear  you  harma 
de  priest — ha?" 

Minnie  had  thus  far  said  nothing,  but  now 
she  rose  and  looked  at  Girasole,  and  then  at 
Ethel.  Then  she  twined  one  arm  around 
Ethel's  waist,  and  turned  her  large,  soft,  child 
ish  eyes  upon  Girasole. 

"What  do  you  mean,"  she  said,  "by  always 
coming  here  and  teasing,  and  worrying,  and 
firing  off  pistols,  and  frightening  people  ?  I'm 
sure  it  was  horrid  enough  for  you  to  make  me 
come  to  this  wretched  place,  when  you  know  I 
don't  like  it,  without  annoying  me  so.  Why 
did  you  go  and  take  away  poor  darling  Kitty  ? 
And  what  do  you  mean  now,  pray,  by  coming 
here  ?  I  never  was  treated  so  unkindly  in  my 
life.  I  did  not  think  that  any  one  could  be  so 
very,  very  rude." 

"  Charming  mees,"  said  Girasole,  with  a  dep 
recating  air,  "it  pains  me  to  do  any  ting dat  you 
do  not  like." 


110 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"It  don't  pain  you,"  said  Minnie — "it  don't 
pain  you  at  alL  You're  always  teasing  me. 
You  never  do  what  I  want  you  to.  You  wouldn't 
even  give  me  a  chair." 

"Alas,  carissima  mia,  to-morra  you  sail  haf 
all!  But  dis  place  is  so  remote." 

"It  is  not  remote,"  said  Minnie.  "It's  close 
by  roads  and  villages  and  things.  Why,  here 
is  Ethel ;  she  has  been  in  a  village  where  there 
are  houses,  and  people,  and  as  many  chairs  as 
she  wants." 

"Oh,  mees,  eef  yon  will  but  wait  an'  be 
patient — eef  you  will  but  wait  an'  see  how  ten 
der  I  will  be,  an'  how  I  lof  you." 

"You  don't  love  me,"  said  Minnie,  "one 
bit.  Is  this  love — not  to  give  me  a  chair  ?  I 
have  been  standing  up  till  I  am  nearly  ready  to 
drop.  And  you  have  nothing  better  than  some 
wretched  promises.  I  don't  care  for  to-mor 
row  ;  I  want  to  be  comfortable  to-day.  You 
won't  let  me  have  a  single  thing.  And  now 
you  come  to  tease  me  again,  and  frighten  poor, 
dear,  darling  Ethel." 

"Eet  ees  because  she  deceif  me — she  come 
wit  a  plot — she  steal  in  here.  Eef  she  had 
wait,  all  would  be  well." 

"You  mustn't  dare  to  touch  her,"  said  Min 
nie,  vehemently.  "  You  shall  leave  her  here. 
She  shall  stay  with  me." 

"  I  am  ver  pain — oh,  very ;  but  oh,  my  an 
gel — sweet — charming  mees — eet  ees  dangaire 
to  my  lof.  She  plot  to  take  you  away.  An' 
all  my  life  is  in  yon.  •  Tink  what  I  haf  to  do 
to  gain  you !" 

Minnie  looked  upon  Girasole,  with  her  large 
eyes  dilated  with  excitement  and  resentment. 

"Yon  are  a  horrid,  horrid  man,"  she  ex 
claimed.  "lAateyou." 

"  Oh,  my  angel,"  pleaded  Girasole,  with  deep 
agitation,  "  take  back  dat  word." 

"I'm  sorry  you  ever  saved  my  life,"  said 
Minnie,  very  calmly;  "and  I'm  sorry  I  ever 
saw  you.  I  hate  you." 

' '  Ah,  you  gi  f  me  torment.  You  do  not  mean 
dis.  You  say  once  you  lof  me." 

"  /  did  not  say  I  loved  you.  It  was  you  who 
said  you  loved  me.  I  never  liked  you.  And 
I  don't  really  see  how  I  could  be  engaged  to 
you  when  I  was  engaged  to  another  man  be 
fore.  He  is  the  only  one  whom  I  recognize 
now.  I  don't  know  you  at  all.  For  I  couldn't 
be  bound  to  two  men ;  could  I,  Ethel  dear  ?" 

Ethel  did  not  reply  to  this  strange  ques 
tion. 

But  upon  Girasole  its  effect  was  very  great. 
The  manner  of  Minnie  had  been  excessively 
perplexing  to  him  all  through  this  eventful 
day.  If  she  had  stormed  and  gone  into  a  fine 
frenzy  he  could  have  borne  it.  It  would  have 
been  natural.  But  she  was  perfectly  uncon 
cerned,  and  her  only  complaint  was  about  tri 
fles.  Such  trifles  too!  He  felt  ashamed  to 
think  that  he  could  have  subjected  to  such  an 
noyances  a  woman  whom  he  so  dearly  loved. 
And  now  he  was  once  more  puzzled.  Minnie 
confronted  him,  looking  at  him  fixedly,  without 


one  particle  of  fear,  with  her  large,  earnest,  in 
nocent  eyes  fastened  upon  his — with  the  calm, 
cool  gaze  of  some  high-minded  child  rebuking 
a  younger  child-companion.  This  was  a  pro 
ceeding  which  he  was  not  prepared  for.  Be 
sides,  the  child-innocence  of  her  face  and  of 
her  words  actually  daunted  him.  She  seemed 
so  fearless,  because  she  was  so  innocent.  She 
became  a  greater  puzzle  than  ever.  He  had 
never  seen  much  of  her  before,  and  this  day's 
experience  of  her  had  actually  daunted  him 
and  confounded  him.  And  what  was  the  worst 
to  him  of  all  her  words  was  her  calm  and  sim 
ple  declaration,  "  I  hate  you  !" 

"Yes,"  said  Minnie,  thoughtfully,  "it  must 
be  so ;  and  dear  Kitty  would  have  said  the 
same,  only  she  was  so  awfully  prejudiced.  And 
I  always  thought  he  was  so  nice.  Yes,  I  think 
I  really  must  be  engaged  to  him.  But  as  for 
you,"  she  said,  turning  full  upon  Girasole,  "I 
hate  you ! " 

Girasole's  face  grew  white  with  rage  and 
jealousy. 

"Aha!"  said  he.  "You  lof  him.  Aha! 
An'  you  were  engage  to  him.  Aha !" 

"Yes,  I  really  think  so." 

"Aha!  Well,  listen,"  cried  Girasole,  in  a 
hoarse  voice — "  listen.  He — he — de  rival — de 
one  you  say  you  are  engage — he  is  dead ! " 

And  with  this  he  fastened  upon  Minnie  his 
eyes  that  now  gleamed  with  rage,  and  had  an 
expression  in  them  that  might  have  made  Ethel 
quiver  with  horror,  but  she  did  not,  for  she  knew 
that  Girasole  was  mistaken  on  that  point. 

As  for  Minnie,  she  was  not  at  all  impressed 
by  his  fierce  looks. 

"  I  don't  think  you  really  know  what  you're 
talking  about,"  said  she ;  "  and  you're  very, 
very  unpleasant.  At  any  rate,  you  are  alto 
gether  in  the  wrong  when  you  say  he  is  dead." 

"Dead!  He  is  dead!  I  swear  it!"  cried 
Girasole,  whose  manner  was  a  little  toned  down 
by  Minnie's  coolness. 

"This  is  getting  to  be  awfully  funny,  you 
know,"  said  Minnie.  "  I  really  think  we  don't 
know  what  one  another  is  talking  about.  I'm 
sure  /  don't,  and  I'm  sure  he  don't,  either; 
does  he,  Ethel  darling  ?" 

"De  Inglis  milor,"  said  Girasole.  "He  is 
dead." 

"  Well,  but  I  don't  mean  him  at  all,"  said 
Minnie. 

"Who — who?"  gasped  Girasole.  "Who — 
who — who  ?" 

"Why,  the  person  I  mean,"  said  Minnie, 
very  placidly,  "is  Rufns  K.  Gunn." 

Girasole  uttered  something  like  a  howl,  and 
retreated. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

UNDER   ARREST. 

GIRASOLE  retreated  half-way  down  the  stairs, 
and  then  he  stopped  for  some  time  and  thought. 
Then  he  came  back  and  motioned  to  Ethel. 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


Ill 


"You  must  come,"  he  said,  gruffly. 

"You  shall  not,"  said  Minnie. 

"No,  no,  darling,"  said  Ethel;  "I  had  bet 
ter  go.  It  will  only  get  you  into  fresh  trouble. 
And  I'll  be  back  as  soon  as  I  can." 

"Oh,  how  I  hate  you !"  said  Minnie  to  Gira- 
sole.  The  latter  said  nothing.  Ethel  kissed 
Minnie,  and  descended  the  stairs  after  him. 

The  Irish  priest  was  standing  over  the  grave 
bathed  in  a  cold  perspiration,  his  heart  throb 
bing  violently,  every  new  thud  of  the  earth,  as 
it  sounded  violently  against  the  coffin,  sending 
a  cold  chill  of  horror  through  every  nerve. 
Already  enough  earth  had  been  thrown  to  cov 
er  three-quarters  of  the  lid,  and  at  the  foot  it 
was  heaped  up  some  distance.  He  tried  to 
frame  some  excuse  to  get  the  men  away.  His 
brain  whirled;  his  mind  was  confused;  his 
thoughts  refused  to  be  collected. 

And  now,  in  the  midst  of  this,  the  attention 
of  all  was  attracted  by  a  loud  stern  voice,  which 
sounded  from  some  one  near.  The  priest 
looked  around.  The  men  stopped  shoveling, 
and  turned  to  see  the  cause  of  the  noise. 

Girasole  was  seen  approaching,  and  was  al 
ready  near  enough  to  be  distinguished.  Be 
hind  him  followed  a  female  form.  At  this 
sight  the  priest's  mind  misgave  him. 

Girasole  came  up,  and  now  the  priest  saw 
that  the  female  was  no  other  than  Ethel. 

"Where  is  this  priest?"  asked  Girasole, 
angrily,  speaking,  of  course,  in  Italian. 

The  priest  advanced. 

"  I  am  here,"  said  he,  with  quiet  dignity. 

At  this  change  in  the  state  of  affairs  the 
priest  regained  his  presence  of  mind.  The 
cessation  in  the  work  gave  him  relief,  and  ena 
bled  him  to  recall  his  scattered  and  confused 
thoughts.  The  men  stood  looking  at  the  speak 
ers,  and  listening,  leaning  on  their  shovels. 

"  You  were  sent  for?" 

"Yes." 

'And  a  maid?" 
'Yes." 

"  You  brought  this  lady?" 

"Yes." 

"You  put  her  in  disguise;  you  passed  her 
off"  as  an  Italian  ?" 

"Yes." 

The  priest  made  no  attempt  at  denial  or 
equivocation.  He  knew  that  this  would  be 
useless.  He  waited  for  an  opportunity  to  ex 
cuse  himself,  and  to  explain  rather  than  to 
deny.  But  every  answer  of  his  only  served  to 
increase  the  fury  of  Girasole,  who  seemed  de 
termined  to  visit  upon  the  head  of  the  priest 
and  Ethel  the  rage  that  he  felt  at  his  last  in 
terview  with  Minnie. 

"Then  why,"  cried  Girasole,  "did  you  try 
to  trick  us  ?  Don't  you  know  the  punishment 
we  give  to  spies  and  traitors  ?" 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  spies  and  trai 
tors." 

"You  are  one  yourself." 

"  I  am  not." 

"You  lie!" 


I  do  not,"  said  the  priest,  mildly.  "  Hear 
me,  and  let  me  tell  my  story,  and  you  will  see 
that  I  am  not  a  traitor ;  or,  if  yon  don't  wish  to 
listen,  then  question  me." 

"There  is  but  one  question.  What  made 
you  bring  this  lady  ?" 

"That  is  simply  answered,"  said  the  priest, 
with  unfaltering  calmness.  "This  lady  and 
her  friends  arrived  at  my  village  and  claimed 
hospitality.  They  were  in  distress.  Some  of 
their  friends  had  been  taken  from  them.  A 
message  came  from  you  requesting  my  pres 
ence,  and  also  a  lady's-maid.  There  was  no 
stipulation  about  the  kind  of  one.  This  lady 
was  the  intimate  friend  of  the  captive,  and  en 
treated  me  to  take  her,  so  that  she  should  see 
her  friend,  and  comfort  her,  and  share  her 
captivity.  I  saw  no  harm  in  the  wish.  She 
proposed  to  become  a  lady's-maid.  I  saw  no 
harm  in  that." 

"Why  did  she  disguise  herself?" 

"  So  as  to  pass  without  trouble.  She  didn't 
want  to  be  delayed.  She  wanted  to  see  her 
friends  as  soon  as  possible.  If  you  had  ques 
tioned  her,  you  would  no  doubt  have  let  her 
pass. " 

"I  would,  no  doubt,  have  done  nothing  of 
the  kind." 

"I  don't  see  any  objection,"  said  the  priest. 

"  Objection  ?     She  is  a  spy !" 

"  A  spy  ?     Of  what,  pray  ?" 

"She  came  to  help  her  friend  to  escape." 

"To  escape?  How  could  she  possibly  help 
her  to  escape  ?  Do  you  think  it  so  easy  to  es 
cape  from  this  place  ?" 

Girasole  was  silent. 

"  Do  you  think  a  young  lady,  who  has  never 
been  out  of  the  care  of  her  friends  before,  could 
do  much  to  assist  a  friend  like  herself  in  an  es 
cape  ?" 

"She  might." 

"  But  how  ?  This  is  not  the  street  of  a  city. 
That  house  is  watched,  I  think.  There  seem  to 
be  a  few  men  in  these  woods,  if  I  am  not  mis 
taken.  Could  this  young  lady  help  her  friend 
to  elude  all  these  guards  ?  Why,  you  know  very 
well  that  she  could  not." 

"Yes;  but  then  there  is — " 

"  Who  ?" 

"Yourself." 
'  Myself?" 
'Yes." 

'What  of  me?" 

'  What  do  I  know  about  your  designs  ?" 
'What   designs   could  7  have?      Do  you 
think  I  could  plan  an  escape  ?" 

"Why  not?" 

"Why  not?  What!  living  here  close  be 
side  you  ?  /  be  a  traitor  ?  /,  with  my  life  at 
your  mercy  at  all  times' — with  my  throat  with 
in  such  easy  reach  of  any  assassin  who  might 
choose  to  revenge  my  treachery  ?" 

"We  are  not  assassins,"  said  Girasole,  an 
grily. 

"  And  I  am  not  a  traitor,"  rejoined  the  priest, 
mildly. 


112 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


UNDEB  GUAM). 


Girasole  was  silent,  and  stood  in  thonght. 
The  men  at  the  grave  had  heard  every  word  of 
this  conversation.  Once  they  laughed  in  scorn 
when  the  priest  alluded  to  the  absurdity  of  a 
young  girl  escaping.  It  was  too  ridiculous. 
Their  sympathies  were  evidently  with  the  priest. 
The  charge  against  him  could  not  be  main 
tained. 

"Well,"  said  Girasole  at  length,  "I  don't 
trust  you.  You  may  be  traitors,  after  all.  I 
will  have  you  guarded,  and  if  I  find  out  any 
thing  that  looks  like  treason,  by  Heaven  I  will 
have  your  life,  old  man,  even  if  you  should  be 
the  Holy  Father  himself;  and  as  to  the  lady — 
well,  I  will  find  plenty  of  ways,"  he  added, 
with  a  sneer,  "of  inflicting  on  her  a  punish 
ment  commensurable  with  her  crime.  Here, 
you  men,  come  along  with  me,"  he  added,  look 
ing  at  the  men  by  the  grave. 

"But  we  want  to  finish  poor  Antonio's 
grave,"  remonstrated  one  of  the  men. 

"  Bah !  he'll  keep,"  said  Girasole,  with  a  sneer. 

"  Can't  one  of  us  stay  ?"  asked  the  man. 

"No,  not  one;  I  want  you  all.  If  they  are 
traitors,  they  are  deep  ones.  They  must  be 


guarded ;  and,  mind  you,  if  they  escape,  you 
shall  suffer." 

With  these  words  he  led  the  way,  and  the 
priest  and  Ethel  followed  him.  After  these 
came  the  men,  who  had  thrown  down  their 
shovels  beside  the  grave.  They  all  walked  on 
in  silence,  following  Girasole,  who  led  the  way 
to  a  place  beyond  the  grave,  and  within  view  of 
one  of  the  fires  formerly  alluded  to.  The  place 
was  about  half-way  between  the  grave  and  the 
fire.  It  was  a  little  knoll  bare  of  trees,  and 
from  it  they  could  be  seen  by  those  at  the  near 
est  fire.  Here  Girasole  paused,  and,  with  some 
final  words  of  warning  to  the  guards,  he  turned 
and  took  his  departure. 

The  priest  sat  down  upon  the  grass,  and  urged 
Ethel  to  do  the  same.  She  followed  his  advice. 
and  sat  down  by  his  side.  The  guards  sat 
around  them  so  as  to  encircle  them,  and,  mind 
ful  of  Girasole's  charge,  they  kept  their  faces 
turned  toward  them,  so  as  to  prevent  even  the 
very  thought  of  flight.  The  priest  addressed  a 
few"  mild  parental  words  to  the  men,  who  gave 
him  very  civil  responses,  but  relaxed  not  a  par 
ticle  of  their  vigilance. 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


113 


In  the  priest's  mind  there  was  still  some  anx 
iety,  but  much  greater  hope  than  he  had  dared 
to  have  for  some  time.  He  remembered  that 
the  coffin  was  not  all  covered  over,  and  hoped 
that  the  inmate  might  be  able  to  breathe.  The 
fact  that  the  work  had  been  so  unexpectedly  in 
terrupted  was  one  which  filled  him  with  joy,  and 
gave  rise  to  the  best  hopes.  The  only  offset  to 
all  this  was  his  own  captivity,  but  that  was  a  very 
serious  one.  Besides,  he  knew  that  his  life  hung 
upon  a  thread.  Before  the  next  day  Girasole 
would  certainly  discover  all,  and  in  that  case  he 
was  a  doomed  man.  But  his  nature  was  of  a 
kind  that  could  not  borrow  trouble,  and  so  the 
fact  of  the  immediate  safety  of  Hawbury  was  of 
far  more  importance,  and  attracted  far  more  of 
his  thoughts,  than  his  own  certain  but  more  re 
mote  danger. 

As  for  Ethel,  she  was  now  a  prey  to  the  deep 
est  anxiety.  All  was  discovered  except  the 
mere  fact  of  Hawbury's  removal,  and  how  long 
that  would  remain  concealed  she  could  not  know. 
Every  moment  she  expected  to  hear  the  cry  of 
those  who  might  discover  the  exchange.  And 
Hawbury,  so  long  lost,  so  lately  found — Haw- 
Imry,  whom  she  had  suspected  of  falsity  so  long 
and  so  long  avoided,  who  now  had  proved  him 
self  so  constant  and  so  true — what  was  his  fate  ? 
.She  had  gazed  with  eyes  of  horror  at  that  grave 
wherein  he  lay,  and  had  seen  the  men  shoveling 
in  the  earth  as  she  came  up.  The  recollection 
of  this  filled  her  with  anguish.  Had  they  buried 
him  ? — how  deep  was  the  earth  that  lay  over 
him? — could  there,  indeed,  be  any  hope? 

All  depended  on  the  priest.  She  hoped  that 
he  had  prevented  things  from  going  too  far. 
She  had  seen  him  watching  the  grave,  and  mo 
tionless.  What  did  that  inactivity  mean?  Was 
it  a  sign  that  Hawbury  was  safe,  or  was  it  mere 
ly  because  he  could  not  do  any  thing? 

She  was  distracted  by  such  fearful  thoughts 
as  these.  Her  heart  once  more  throbbed  with 
those  painful  pulsations  which  she  had  felt  when 
approaching  Hawbury.  For  some  time  she  sat 
supporting  her  agony  as  best  she  could,  and  not 
daring  to  ask  the  priest,  for  fear  their  guards 
might  suspect  the  truth,  or  perhaps  understand 
her  words. 

But  at  last  she  could  bear  it  no  longer. 

She  touched  the  priest's  arm  as  he  sat  beside 
her,  without  looking  at  him. 

The  priest  returned  the  touch. 

"  Is  he  safe  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  tremulous 
voice,  which  was  scarce  audible  from  grief  and 
anxiety. 

"He  is,"  said  the  priest. 

And  then,  looking  at  the  man  before  him,  he 
added  immediately,  in  an  unconcerned  tone, 

"She  wants  to  know  what  time  it  is,  and  I 
told  her  two  o'clock.  That's  right,  isn't  it?" 

"About  right,"  said  the  man. 

Now  that  was  a  lie,  but  whether  it  was  justi 
fiable  or  not  may  be  left  to  others  to  decide. 

As  for  Ethel,  an  immense  load  of  anxiety  was 
lifted  off  her  mind,  and  she  began  to  breathe 
more  freely. 

H 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE  DEMON    WIFE. 

WHEN  Dacres  was  overpowered  by  his  as 
sailants  no  mercy  was  shown  him.  His  hands 
were  bound  tight  behind  him,  and  kicks  and 
blows  were  liberally  bestowed  during  the  opera 
tion.  Finally,  he  was  pushed  and  dragged  into 
the  house,  and  up  stairs  to  the  room  already 
mentioned.  There  he  was  still  further  secured 
by  a  tight  rope  around  his  ankles,  after  which 
he  was  left  to  his  own  meditations. 

Gloomy  and  bitter  and  fierce,  indeed,  were 
those  meditations.  His  body  was  covered  with 
bruises,  and  though  no  bones  were  broken,  yet 
his  pain  was  great.  In  addition  to  this  the 
cords  around  his  wrists  and  ankles  were  very 
tight,  and  his  veins  seemed  swollen  to  bursting. 
It  was  difficult  to  get  an  easy  position,  and  he 
could  only  lie  on  his  side  or  on  his  face.  These 
bodily  pains  only  intensified  the  fierceness  of 
his  thoughts  and  made  them  turn  more  vindic 
tively  than  ever  upon  the  subject  of  his  wife. 

She  was  the  cause  of  all  this,  he  thought. 
She  had  sacrificed  every  thing  to  her  love  for 
her  accursed  paramour.  For  this  she  had  be 
trayed  him,  and  her  friends,  and  the  innocent 
girl  who  was  her  companion.  All  the  malig 
nant  feelings  which  had  filled  his  soul  through 
the  day  now  swelled  within  him,  till  he  was 
well-nigh  mad.  Most  intolerable  of  all  was 
his  position  now  —  the  baffled  enemy.  He 
had  come  as  the  avenger,  he  had  come  as  the 
destroyer;  but  he  had  been  entrapped  before 
he  had  struck  his  blow,  and  here  he  was  now 
lying,  defeated,  degraded,  and  humiliated !  No 
doubt  he  would  be  kept  to  afford  sport  to  his 
enemy — perhaps  even  his  wife  might  come  to 
gloat  over  his  sufferings,  and  feast  her  soul 
with  the  sight  of  his  ruin.  Over  such  thoughts 
as  these  he  brooded,  until  at  last  he  had  wrought 
himself  into  something  like  frenzy ;  and  with 
the  pain  that  he  felt,  and  the  weariness  that 
followed  the  fatigues  of  that  day,  these  thoughts 
might  finally  have  brought  on  madness,  had  they 
gone  on  without  any  thing  to  disturb  them. 

But  all  these  thoughts  and  ravings  were  des 
tined  to  come  to  a  full  and  sudden  stop,  and  to 
be  changed  to  others  of  a  far  different  charac 
ter.  This  change  took  place  when  Girasole. 
after  visiting  the  ladies,  came,,  with  Mrs.  Wil- 
loughby,  to  his  room.  As  Dacres  lay  on  the 
floor  he  heard  the  voice  of  the  Italian,  and  the 
faint,  mournful,  pleading  tones  of  a  woman's 
voice,  and,  finally,  he  saw  the  flash  of  a  light, 
and  knew  that  the  Italian  was  coming  to  his 
room',  and  perhaps  this  woman  also.  He  held 
his  breath  in  suspense.  What  did  it  mean? 
The  tone  of  Girasole  was  not  the  tone  of  love. 

The  light  drew  nearer,  and  the  footsteps  too — 
one  a  heavy  footfall,  the  tread  of  a  man ;  the 
other  lighter,  the  step  of  a  woman.  He  waited 
almost  breathless. 

At  last  she  appeared.  There  she  was  before 
him,  and  with  the  Italian  ;  but  oh,  how  changed 
from  that  demon  woman  of  his  fancies,  who 


114 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


was  to  appear  before  him  with  his  enemy  and 
gloat  over  his  sufferings !  Was  there  a  trace 
of  a  fiend  in  that  beautiful  and  gentle  face? 
Was  there  thought  of  joy  or  exultation  over 
him  in  that  noble  and  mournful  lady,  whose 
melancholy  grace  and  tearful  eyes  now  riveted 
his  gaze  ?  Where  was  the  foul  traitor  who  had 
done  to  death  her  husband  and  her  friend? 
Where  was  the  miscreant  who  had  sacrificed 
all  to  a  guilty  passion  ?  Not  there ;  not  with 
that  face ;  not  with  those  tears  :  to  think  that 
was  impossible  —  it  was  unholy.  He  might 
rave  when  he  did  not  see  her,  but  now  that  his 
eyes  beheld  her  those  mad  fancies  were  all  dis 
sipated. 

There  was  only  one  thing  there — a  woman 
full  of  loveliness  and  grace,  in  the  very  bloom 
of  her  life,  overwhelmed  with  suffering  which 
this  Italian  was  inflicting  on  her.  Why  ? 
Could  he  indulge  the  unholy  thought  that  the 
Italian  had  cast  her  off,  and  supplied  her  place 
with  the  younger  beauty  ?  Away  with  such  a 
thought !  It  was  not  jealousy  of  that  younger 
lady  that  Dacres  perceived  ;  it  was  the  cry  of 
a  loving,  yearning  heart  that  clung  to  that  other 
one,  from  whom  the  Italian  had  violently  sev 
ered  her.  There  was  no  mistake  as  to  the 
source  of  this  sorrow.  Nothing  was  left  to  the 
imagination.  Her  own  words  told  all. 

Then  the  light  was  taken  away,  and  the  lady 
crouched  upon  the  floor.  Dacres  could  no  lon 
ger  see  her  amidst  that  gloom ;  but  he  could 
hear  her;  and  every  sob,  and  every  sigh,  and 
every  moan  went  straight  to  his  heart  and 
thrilled  through  every  fibre  of  his  being.  He 
lay  there  listening,  and  quivering  thus  as  he 
listened  with  a  very  intensity  of  sympathy  that 
shut  out  from  his  mind  every  other  thought  ex 
cept  that  of  the  mourning,  stricken  one  before 
him. 

Thus  a  long  time  passed,  and  the  lady  wept 
still,  and  other  sounds  arose,  and  there  were 
footsteps  in  the  house,  and  whisperings,  and 
people  passing  to  and  fro ;  but  to  all  these 
Dacres  was  deaf,  and  they  caused  no  more  im 
pression  on  his  senses  than  if  they  were  not. 
His  ears  and  his  sense  of  hearing  existed  only 
for  these  sobs  and  these  sighs. 

At  last  a  pistol-shot  roused  him.  The  lady 
sprang  up  and  called  in  despair.  A  cry  came 
back,  and  the  lady  was  about  to  venture  to  the 
other  room,  when  she  was  driven  back  by  the 
stern  voice  of  Girasole.  Then  she  stood  for  a 
moment,  after  which  she  knelt,  and  Dacres 
heard  her  voice  in  prayer.  The  prayer  was  not 
audible,  but  now  and  then  words  struck  upon 
his  ears  which  gave  the  key  to  her  other  words, 
and  he  knew  that  it  was  no  prayer  of  remorse 
for  guilt,  but  a  cry  for  help  in  sore  affliction. 

Had  any  thing  more  been  needed  to  destroy 
the  last  vestige  of  Dacres's  former  suspicions  it 
was  furnished  by  the  words  which  he  now  heard. 
"Oh,  Heaven!  "he  thought;  "  can  this  woman 
be  what  I  have  thought  her  ?  But  if  not,  what 
a  villain  am  I !  Yet  now  I  must  rather  believe 
myself  to  be  a  villain  than  her ! " 


In  the  midst  of  this  prayer  Girasole's  voice 
sounded,  and  then  Minnie's  tones  came  clearly 
audible.  The  lady  rose  and  listened,  and  a 
great  sigh  of  relief  escaped  her.  Then  Gira 
sole  descended  the  stairs,  and  the  lady  again 
sank  upon  her  knees. 

Thus  far  there  seemed  a  spell  upon  Dacres ; 
but  this  last  incident  and  the  clear  child-voice 
of  Minnie  seemed  to  break  it.  He  could  no 
longer  keep  silence.  His  emotion  was  as  in 
tense  as  ever,  but  the  bonds  which  had  bound 
his  lips  seemed  now  to  be  loosened. 

"Oh,  Arethusa  !"  he  moaned. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  Mrs.  Willoughby 
started,  and  rose  to  her  feet.  So  great  had 
been  her  anxiety  and  agitation  that  for  some 
time  she  had  not  thought  of  another  being  in 
the  room,  and  there  had  been  no  sound  from 
him  to  suggest  his  existence.  But  now  his 
voice  startled  her.  She  gave  no  answer,  how 
ever. 

"Arethusa!"  repeated  Dacres,  gently  and 
longingly  and  tenderly. 

"Poor  fellow!"  thought  Mrs.  Willoughby; 
"he's  dreaming." 

"Arethusa !  oh,  Arethusa !"  said  Dacres  once 
more.  "Do  not  keep  away.  Come  to  me. 
I  am  calm  now/' 

"Poor  fellow!"  thought  Mrs.  Willoughby. 
"  He  doesn't  seem  to  be  asleep.  He's  talking 
to  me.  I  really  think  he  is." 

"Arethusa,"  said  Dacres  again,  "will  you 
answer  me  one  question  ?" 

Mrs.  Willoughby  hesitated  for  a  moment,  but 
now  perceived  that  Dacres  was  really  speaking 
to  her.  "He's  in  delirium,"  she  thought.  "Poor 
fellow,  I  must  humor  him,  I  suppose.  But  what 
a  funny  name  to  give  me !" 

So,  after  a  little  preparatory  cough,  Mrs. 
Willoughby  said,  in  a  low  voice, 

"  What  question  ?" 

Dacres  was  silent  for  a  few  moments.  He 
was  overcome  by  his  emotions.  He  wished  to 
ask  her  one  question — the  question  of  all  ques 
tions  in  his  mind.  Already  her  acts  had  an 
swered  it  sufficiently;  but  he  longed  to  have 
the  answer  in  her  own  words.  Yet  he  hesitated 
to  ask  it.  It  was  dishonor  to  her  to  ask  it. 
And  thus,  between  longing  and  hesitation,  he 
delayed  so  long  that  Mrs.  Willoughby  imagined 
that  he  had  fallen  back  into  his  dreams  or  into 
his  delirium,  and  would  say  no  more. 

But  at  last  Dacres  staked  every  thing  on  the 
issue,  and  asked  it : 

"Arethusa!  oh,  Arethusa!  do  you — do  you 
love — the — the  Italian  ?" 

"The  Italian!"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby  — 
"love  the  Italian!  me!"  and  then  in  a  mo 
ment  she  thought  that  this  was  his  delirium, 
and  she  must  humor  it.  "Poor  fellow!"  she 
sighed  again  ;  "  how  he  fought  them !  and  no 
doubt  he  has  had  fearful  blows  on  his  head." 

"Do  you?  do  yon?  Oh,  answer,  I  implore 
yon!"  cried  Dacres. 

"  No  !"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby,  solemnly.  "I 
hate  him  as  I  never  hated  man  before."  She 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


115 


spoke  her  mind  this  time,  although  she  thought 
the  other  was  delirious. 

A  sigh  of  relief  and  of  happiness  came  from 
Dacres,  so  deep  that  it  was  almost  a  groan. 

"And  oh,"  he  continued,  "tell  me  this — 
have  you  ever  loved  him  at  all  ?" 

"I  always  disliked  him  excessively,"  said 
Mrs.  Willoughby,  in  the  same  low  and  solemn 
tone.  "  I  saw  something  bad — altogether  bad 
— in  his  face." 

"Oh,  may  Heaven  forever  bless  you  for  that 
word!"  exclaimed  Dacres,  with  such  a  depth 
of  fervor  that  Mrs.  Willoughby  was  surprised. 
She  now  believed  that  he  was  intermingling 
dreams  with  realities,  and  tried  to  lead  him  to 
sense  by  reminding  him  of  the  truth. 

"It  was  Minnie,  you  know,  that  he  was 
fond  of." 

"What!     Minnie  Fay?" 

"  Yes ;  oh  yes.  /  never  saw  any  thing  of 
him." 

" Oh,  Heavens !"  cried  Dacres ;  "oh,  Heav 
ens,  what  a  fool,  beast,  villain,  and  scoundrel  I 
have  been !  Oh,  how  I  have  misjudged  you .' 
And  can  you  forgive  me  ?  Oh,  can  you  ?  But 
no — you  can  not." 

At  this  appeal  Mrs.  Willoughby  was  startled, 
and  did  not  know  what  to  say  or  to  do.  How 
much  of  this  was  delirium  and  how  much  real 
she  could  not  tell.  One  thing  seemed  evident 
to  her,  and  that  was  that,  whether  delirious  or 
not,  he  took  her  for  another  person.  But  she 
was  so  full  of  pity  for  him,  and  so  very  tender 
hearted,  that  her  only  idea  was  to  "humor" 
him. 

"Oh,"  he  cried  again,  " can  this  all  be  true, 
and  have  all  my  suspicions  been  as  mad  as  these 
last  ?  And  you — how  you  have  changed  !  How 
beautiful  you  are !  What  tenderness  there  is 
in  your  glance — what  a  pure  and  gentle  and 
touching  grace  there  is  in  your  expression !  I 
swear  to  you,  by  Heaven !  I  have  stood  gazing 
at  you  in  places  where  you  have  not  seen  me, 
and  thought  I  saw  heaven  in  your  face,  and  wor 
shiped  you  in  my  inmost  soul.  This  is  the  rea 
son  why  I  have  followed  you.  From  the  time 
I  saw  you  when  you  came  into  the  room  at  Na 
ples  till  this  night  I  could  not  get  rid  of  your 
image.  I  fought  against  the  feeling,  but  I  can 
not  overcome  it.  Never,  never  were  you  half 
so  dear  as  you  are  now !" 

Now,  of  course,  that  was  all  very  well,  con 
sidered  as  the  language  of  an  estranged  hus 
band  seeking  for  reconciliation  with  an  es 
tranged  wife ;  but  when  one  regards  it  simply 
as  the  language  of  a  passionate  lover  directed 
to  a  young  and  exceedingly  pretty  widow,  one 
will  perceive  that  it  was  not  all  very  well,  and 
that  under  ordinary  circumstances  it  might  cre 
ate  a  sensation. 

Upon  Mrs.  Willoughby  the  sensation  was 
simply  tremendous.  She  had  begun  by  "hu 
moring"  the  delirious  man ;  but  now  she  found 
his  delirium  taking  a  course  which  was  excess 
ively  embarrassing.  The  worst  of  it  was,  there 
was  truth  enough  in  his  language  to  increase 


the  embarrassment.  She  remembered  at  once 
how  the  mournful  face  of  this  man  had  appeared 
before  her  in  different  places.  Her  thoughts 
instantly  reverted  to  that  evening  on  the  bal 
cony  when  his  pale  face  appeared  behind  the 
fountain.  There  was  truth  in  his  words ;  and 
her  heart  beat  with  extraordinary  agitation  at 
the  thought.  Yet  at  the  same  time  there  was 
some  mistake  about  it  all ;  and  he  was  clearly 
delirious. 

"Oh,  Heavens !"  he  cried.  " Can  you  ever 
forgive  me  ?  Is  there  a  possibility  of  it  ?  Oh, 
can  you  forgive  me  ?  Can  you — can  you  ?" 

He  was  clearly  delirious  now.  Her  heart 
was  full  of  pity  for  him.  He  was  suffering  too. 
He  was  bound  fast.  Could  she  not  release 
him  ?  It  was  terrible  for  this  man  to  lie  there 
bound  thus.  And  perhaps  he  had  fallen  into 
the  hands  of  these  ruffians  while  trying  to  save 
her  and  her  sister.  She  must  free  him. 

"Would  you  like  to  be  loosed?"  she  asked, 
coming  nearer.  "  Shall  I  cut  your  bonds  ?" 

She  spoke  in  a  low  whisper. 

"  Oh,  tell  me  first,  I  implore  you !  Can 
you  forgive  me?" 

He  spoke  in  such  a  piteous  tone  that  her 
heart  was  touched. 

"Forgive  you?"  she  said,  in  a  voice  full  of 
sympathy  and  pity.  "There  is  nothing  for 
me  to  forgive." 

"Now  may  Heaven  forever  bless  you  for 
that  sweet  and  gentle  word ! "  said  Dacres,  who 
altogether  misinterpreted  her  words,  and  the 
emphasis  she  placed  on  them ;  and  in  his  voice 
there  was  such  peace,  and  such  a  gentle,  exult 
ant  happiness,  that  Mrs.  Willoughby  again  felt 
touched. 

"Poor  fellow !"  she  thought ;  " how  he  must 
have  suffered!" 

"  Where  are  you  fastened  ?"  she  whispered, 
as  she  bent  over  him.  Dacres  felt  her  breath 
upon  his  cheek ;  the  hem  of  her  garment 
touched  his  sleeve,  and  a  thrill  passed  through 
him.  He  felt  as  though  he  would  like  to  be 
forever  thus,  with  her  bending  over  him. 

"  My  hands  are  fastened  behind  me, "  said  he. 

"I  have  a  knife,"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby. 
She  did  not  stop  to  think  of  danger.  It  was 
chiefly  pity  that  incited  her  to  this.  She  could 
not  bear  to  see  him  lying  thus  in  pain,  which 
he  had  perhaps,  as  she  supposed,  encountered 
for  her.  She  was  impulsive,  and  though  she 
thought  of  his  assistance  toward  the  escape  of 
Minnie  and  herself,  yet  pity  and  compassion 
were  her  chief  inspiring  motives. 

Mrs.  Willoughby  had  told  Girasole  that  she 
had  no  knife ;  but  this  was  not  quite  true,  for 
she  now  produced  one,  and  cut  the  cords  that 
bound  his  wrists.  Again  a  thrill  flashed  through 
him  at  the  touch  of  her  little  fingers ;  she  then 
cut  the  cords  that  bound  his  ankles. 

Dacres  sat  up.  His  ankles  and  wrists  were 
badly  swollen,  but  he  was  no  longer  conscious 
of  pain.  There  was  rapture  in  his  soul,  and 
of  that  alone  was  he  conscious. 

"Be   careful!"  she  whispered,  warningly  ;    • 


116 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"guards  arc  all  aroun^,  and  listeners.  Be 
careful!  If  you  can  think  of  a  way  of  escape, 
do  so." 

Dacres  rubbed  his  hand  over  his  forehead. 

"Am  I  dreaming?"  said  he;  "or  is  it  all 
true  ?  Awhile  ago  I  was  suffering  from  some 
hideous  vision ;  yet  now  you  say  you  forgive 
me!" 

Mrs.  Willoughby  saw  in  this  a  sign  of  re 
turning  delirium.  "But  the  poor  fellow  must 
be  humored,  I  suppose,"  she  thought. 

"Oh,  there  is  nothing  for  me  to  forgive," 
said  she. 

"But  if  there  were  any  thing,  would  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Freely?"  he  cried,  with  a  strong  emphasis. 

"Yes,  freely." 

"  Oh,  could  you  answer  me  one  more  ques 
tion  ?  Oh,  could  you  ?" 

"  No,  no ;  not  now — not  now,  I  entreat  you," 
said  Mrs.  Willoughby,  in  nervous  dread.  She 
was  afraid  that  his  delirium  would  bring  him 
upon  delicate  ground,  and  she  tried  to  hold 
him  back. 

"  But  I  must  ask  you,"  said  Dacres,  trem 
bling  fearfully — "I  must — now  or  never.  Tell 
me  my  doom;  I  have  suffered  so  much.  Oh, 
Heavens !  Answer  me.  Can  you  ?  Can  you 
feel  toward  me  as  you  once  did  ?" 

"  He's  utterly  mad,"  thought  Mrs.  Willough 
by  ;  "  but  he'll  get  worse  if  I  don't  soothe  him. 
Poor  fellow !  I  ought  to  answer  him." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Oh,  my  darling!"  murmured  Dacres,  in 
rapture  inexpressible;  "my  darling!"  he  re 
peated  ;  and  grasping  Mrs.  Willoughby's  hand, 
he  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  "  And  you  will  love 
me  again — you  will  love  me?" 

Mrs.  Willoughby  paused.  The  man  was 
mad,  but  the  ground  was  so  dangerous !  Yes, 
she  must  humor  him.  She  felt  his  hot  kisses 
on  her  hand. 

"  You  will — you  will  love  me,  will  you  not  ?" 
he  repeated.  "  Oh,  answer  me !  Answer  me, 
or  I  shall  die!" 

"  Yes,"  whispered  Mrs.  Willoughby,  faintly. 

As  she  said  this  a  cold  chill  passed  through 
her.  But  it  was  too  late.  Dacres's  arms  were 
around  her.  He  had  drawn  her  to  him,  and 
pressed  her  against  his  breast,  and  she  felt  hot 
tears  upon  her  head. 

"Oh,  Arethusa!"  cried  Dacres. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby,  as  soon  as 
she  could  extricate  herself,  "  there's  a  mistake, 
you  know." 

"A  mistake,  darling?" 

"Oh  dear,  what  shall  I  do?"  thought  Mrs. 
Willoughby;  "he's  beginning  again.  I  must 
stop  this,  and  bring  him  to  his  senses.  How 
terrible  it  is  to  humor  a  delirious  man  !" 

"Oh,  Arethusa  !"  sighed  Dacres  once  more. 

Mrs.  Willoughby  arose. 

"I'm  not  Arethusa  at  all,"  said  she  ;  "that 
isn't  my  name.  If  you  can  shake  off  your  de 
lirium,  I  wish  you  would.  I  really  do." 

"  What !"  cried  Dacres,  in  amazement. 


"I'm  not  Arethusa  at  all ;  that  isn't  my  name.1 

"  Not  your  name  ?" 

"  No  ;  my  name's  Kitty." 

"Kitty!"  cried  Dacres,  starting  to  his  feet. 

At  that  instant  the  report  of  a  gun  burst 
upon  their  ears,  followed  by  another  and  an 
other  ;  then  there  were  wild  calls  and  loud 
shouts.  Other  guns  were  heard. 

Yet  amidst  all  this  wild  alarm  there  was  no 
thing  which  had  so  tremendous  an  effect  upon 
Dacres  as  this  last  remark  of  Mrs.  Willoughby's. 


"TUB  I'BiEST  FLUNG  HIMSELF  FOB\VA.UI>. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE   CRISIS    OF   LIFE. 

WHEN  the  Irish  priest  conjectured  that  it 
was  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  was 
not  very  far  astray  in  his  calculation.  The 
short  remarks  that  were  exchanged  between 
him  and  Ethel,  and  afterward  between  him 
and  the  men,  were  followed  by  a  profound  si 
lence.  Ethel  sat  by  the  side  of  the  priest, 
with  her  head  bent  forward  and  her  eyes  closed 
as  though  she  were  asleep ;  yet  sleep  was  farther 
from  her  than  ever  it  had  been,  and  the  thrill 
ing  events  of  the  night  afforded  sufficient  ma 
terial  to  keep  her  awake  for  many  a  long  hour 
yet  to  come.  Her  mind  was  now  filled  with  a 
thousand  conflicting  and  most  exciting  fancies, 
in  the  midst  of  which  she  might  again  have 
sunk  into  despair  had  she  not  been  sustained  by 
the  assurance  of  the  priest. 

Sitting  near  Ethel,  the  priest  for  some  time 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


117 


looked  fixedly  ahead  of  him  as  though  he  were 
contemplating  the  solemn  midnight  scene,  or 
meditating  upon  the  beauties  of  nature.  In 
truth,  the  scene  around  was  one  which  was  de 
serving  even  of  the  close  attention  which  the 
priest  appeared  to  give.  Immediately  before 
him  lay  the  lake,  its  shore  not  far  beneath,  and  | 
almost  at  their  feet.  Around  it  arose  the  wood 
ed  hills,  whose  dark  forms,  darker  from  the 
gloom  of  night,  threw  profound  shadows  over 
the  opposite  shores.  Near  by  the  shore  ex 
tended  on  either  side.  On  the  right  there 
were  fires,  now  burning  low,  yet  occasionally 
sending  forth  flashes  ;  on  the  left,  an  .1  at  some 
distance,  might  be  seen  the  dusky  outline  of 
the  old  stone  house.  Behind  tlum  was  the 
forest,  vast,  gloomy,  clothed  in  impenetrable 
shade,  in  which  lay  their  only  hope  of  safety, 
yet  where  even  now  there  lurked  the  watchful 
guards  of  the  brigands.  It  was  close  behind 
them.  Once  in  its  shelter,,  and  they  might 
gain  freedom ;  yet  between  them  and  it  was 
an  impassable  barrier  of  enemies,  and  there 
also  lay  a  still  more  impassable  barrier  in  the 
grave  where  Hawbury  lay.  To  fly,  even  if 
they  could  fly,  would  be  to  give  him  up  to 
death ;  yet  to  remain,  as  they  must  remain, 
would  be  to  doom  him  to  death  none  the  less, 
and  themselves  too. 

Seated  there,  with  his  eyes  directed  toward 
the  water,  the  priest  saw  nothing  of  the  scene 
before  him  ;  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  vacancy ; 
his  thoughts  were  endeavoring  to  grapple  with 
the  situation  and  master  it.  Yet  so  compli 
cated  was  that  situation,  and  so  perplexing  the 
dilemma  in  which  he  found  himself — a  dilemma 
where  death  perched  upon  either  horn — that 
the  good  priest  found  his  faculties  becoming 
gradually  more  and  more  unable  to  deal  with 
the  difficulty,  and  he  felt  himself  once  more 
sinking  down  deeper  and  deeper  into  that  abyss 
of  despair  from  which  he  had  but  recently  ex 
tricated  himself. 

And  still  the  time  passed,  and  the  precious 
moments,  laden  with  the  fate  not  only  of  Haw- 
bury,  but  of  all  the  others — the  moments  of  the 
night  during  which  alone  any  escape  was  to  be 
thought  of — moved  all  too  swiftly  away. 

Now  in  this  hour  of  perplexity  the  good 
priest  bethought  him  of  a  friend  whose  fidelity 
had  been  proved  through  the  varied  events  of 
a  life — a  friend  which,  in  his  life  of  celibacy, 
had  found  in  his  heart  something  of  that  place 
which  a  fond  and  faithful  wife  may  hold  in  the 
heart  of  a  more  fortunate  man.  It  was  a  little 
friend,  a  fragrant  friend,  a  tawny  and  somewhat 
grimy  friend  ;  it  was  in  the  pocket  of  his  coat ; 
it  was  of  clay  ;  in  fact,  it  was  nothing  else  than 
a  dudeen. 

Where  in  the  world  1  ad  the  good  priest  who 
lived  in  this  remote  corner  of  Italy  got  that 
emblem  of  his  green  native  isle  ?  Perhaps  he 
had  brought  it  with  him  in  the  band  of  his  hat 
when  he  first  turned  his  back  upon  his  country, 
or  perhaps  he  had  obtained  it  from  the  samo 
quarter  which  had  supplied  him  with  that  very 


black  plug  of  tobacco  which  he  brought  forth 
shortly  afterward.  The  one  was  the  comple 
ment  of  the  other,  and  each  was  handled  with 
equal  love  and  care.  Soon  the  occupation  of 
cutting  up  the  tobacco  and  rubbing  it  gave  a 
temporary  distraction  to  his  thoughts,  which 
distraction  was  prolonged  by  the  further  opera 
tion  of  pressing  the  tobacco  into  the  bowl  of 
the  dudeen. 

Here  the  priest  paused  and  cast  a  longing 
look  toward  the  fire,  which  was  not  far  away. 

"Would  you  have  any  objection  to  let  me 
go  and  get  a  coal  to  light  the  pipe  ?"  said  he  to 
one  of  the  men. 

The  man  had  an  objection,  and  a  very  strong 
one. 

"  Would  one  of  you  be  kind  enough  to  go 
and  get  me  a  brand  or  a  hot  coal  ?" 

This  led  to  an  earnest  debate,  and  finally 
one  of  the  men  thought  that  he  might  venture. 
Before  doing  so,  however,  a  solemn  promise 
was  extorted  from  the  priest  that  he  would  not 
try  to  escape  during  his  absence.  This  the 
priest  gave. 

"Escape!"  he  said — "it's  a  smoke  I  want. 
Besides,  how  can  I  escape  with  three  of  ye 
watching  me  ?  And  then,  what  would  I  want 
to  escape  for?  I'm  safe  enough  here." 

The  man  now  went  off,  and  returned  in  a 
short  time  with  a  brand.  The  priest  gave  him 
his  blessing,  and  received  the  brand  with  a 
quiet  exultation  that  was  pleasing  to  behold. 

"Matches,"  said  he,  "ruin  the  smoke. 
They  give  it  a  sulphur  taste.  There's  nothing 
like  a  hot  coal." 

Saying  this,  he  lighted  his  pipe.  This  oper 
ation  was  accomplished  with  a  series  of  those 
short,  quick,  hard,  percussive  puffs  with  which 
the  Irish  race  in  every  clime  on  this  terrestrial 
ball  perform  the  solemn  rite. 

And  now  the  thoughts  of  the  priest  became 
more  calm  and  regular  and  manageable.  His 
confusion  departed,  and  gradually,  as  the 
smoke  ascended  to  the  skies,  there  was  diffused 
over  his  soul  a  certain  soothing  and  all-pervad 
ing  calm. 

He  now  began  to  face  the  full  difficulty  of 
his  position.  He  saw  that  escape  was  impos 
sible  and  death  inevitable.  He  made  up  his 
mind  to  die.  The  discovery  would  surely  be 
made  in  the  morning  that  Hawbury  had  been 
substituted  for  the  robber ;  he  would  be  found 
and  punished,  and  the  priest  would  be  involved 
in  his  fate.  His  only  care  now  was  for  Ethel ; 
and  he  turned  his  thoughts  toward  the  forma 
tion  of  some  plan  by  which  he  might  obtain 
mercy  for  her. 

He  was  in  the  midst  of  these  thoughts — for 
himself  resigned,  for  Ethel  anxious — and  turning 
over  in  his  mind  all  the  various  modes  by  which 
the  emotion  of  pity  or  mercy  might  be  roused 
in  a  merciless  and  pitiless  nature  ;  he  was  think 
ing  of  an  appeal  to  the  brigands  themselves, 
and  had  already  decided  that  in  this  there  lay 
his  best  hope  of  success — when  all  of  a  sudden 
these  thoughts  were  rudely  interrupted  and 


118 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


dissipated  and  scattered  to  the  winds  by  a 
most  startling  cry. 

Ethel  started  to  her. feet. 

"Oh  Heavens!"  she  cried,  "what  was 
that?" 

"Down !  down  !"  cried  the  men,  wrathfully ; 
but  before  Ethel  could  obey  the  sound  was  re 
peated,  and  the  men  themselves  were  arrested 
by  it. 

The  sound  that  thus  interrupted  the  medita 
tions  of  the  priest  was  the  explosion  of  a  rifle. 
As  Ethel  started  up  another  followed.  This 
excited  the  men  themselves,  who  now  listened 
intently  to  learn  the  cause. 

They  did  not  have  to  wait  long. 

Another  rifle  explosion  followed,  which  was 
succeeded  by  a  loud,  long  shriek. 

"An  attack!"  cried  one  of  the  men,  with  a 
deep  curse.  They  listened  still,  yet  did  not 
move  away  from  the  place,  for  the  duty  to 
which  they  had  been  assigned  was  still  prom 
inent  in  their  minds.  The  priest  had  already 
risen  to  his  feet,  still  smoking  his  pipe,  as 
though  in  this  new  turn  of  affairs  its  assistance 
might  be  more  than  ever  needed  to  enable  him 
to  preserve  his  presence  of  mind,  and  keep  his 
soul  serene  in  the  midst  of  confusion. 

And  now  they  saw  all  around  them  the  signs 
of  agitation.  Figures  in  swift  motion  flitted  to 
and  fro  amidst  the  shade,  and  others  darted 
past  the  smouldering  fires.  In  the  midst  of 
this  another  shot  sounded,  and  another,  and 
still  another.  At  the  third  there  was  a  wild 
yell  of  rage  and  pain,  followed  by  the  shrill  cry 
of  a  woman's  voice.  The  fact  was  evident  that 
some  one  of  the  brigands  had  fallen,  and  the 
women  were  lamenting. 

The  confusion  grew  greater.  Loud  cries 
arose  ;  calls  of  encouragement,  of  entreaty,  of 
command,  and  of  defiance.  Over  by  the  old 
house  there  was  the  uproar  of  rushing  men, 
and  in  the  midst  of  it  a  loud,  stern  voice  of 
command.  The  voices  and  the  rushing  foot 
steps  moved  from  the  house  to  the  woods. 
Then  all  was  still  for  a  time. 

It  was  but  for  a  short  time,  however.  Then 
came  shot  after  shot  in  rapid  succession.  The 
flashes  could  be  seen  among  the  trees.  All 
around  them  there  seemed  to  be  a  struggle 
going  on.  There  was  some  unseen  assail 
ant  striking  terrific  blows  from  the  impenetra 
ble  shadow  of  the  woods.  The  brigands  were 
firing  back,  but  they  fired  only  into  thick  dark 
ness.  Shrieks  and  yells  of  pain  arose  from 
time  to  time,  the  direction  of  which  showed 
that  the  brigands  were  suffering.  Among  the 
assailants  there  was  neither  voice  nor  cry. 
But,  in  spite  of  their  losses  and  the  disadvan 
tage  under  which  they  labored,  the  brigands 
fought  well,  and  resisted  stubbornly.  From 
time  to  time  a  loud,  stern  voice  arose,  whose 
commands  resounded  far  and  wide,  and  sus 
tained  the  courage  of  the  men  and  directed 
their  movements. 

The  men  who  guarded  the  priest  and  Ethel 
were  growing  more  and  more  excited  every 


moment,  and  were  impatient  at  their  enforced 
inaction. 

"They  must  be  soldiers,"  said  one. 

"  Of  course,"  said  another. 

"They  fight  well." 

"Ay;  better  than  the  last  time." 

"How  did  they  learn  to  fight  so  well  under 
cover  ?" 

"  They've  improved.  The  last  time  we  met 
them  we  shot  them  like  sheep,  and  drove  them 
back  in  five  minutes." 

"They've  got  a  leader  who  understands 
fighting  in  the  woods.  He  keeps  them  under 
cover. " 

"Who  is  he?" 

"Diavolo.1  who  knows?  They  get  new 
captains  every  day." 

"Was1  there  not  a  famous  American  Indi 
an — " 

"True.  I  heard  of  him.  An  Indian  war 
rior  from  the  American  forests.  Guiseppe  saw 
him  when  he  was  at  Rome." 

"  Bah ! — you  all  saw  him. " 

"Where?" 

"On  the  road." 

"We  didn't." 

"You  did.  He  was  the  Zouave  who  fled  to 
the  woods  first." 

"He?" 

"Yes." 

"Diavolo!" 

These  words  were  exchanged  between  them 
as  they  looked  at  the  fighting.  But  suddenly 
there  came  rapid  flashes  and  rolling  volleys  be 
yond  the  fires  that  lay  before  them,  and  the 
movement  of  the  flashes  showed  that  a  rush 
had  been  made  toward  the  lake.  Wild  yells 
arose,  then  fierce  returning  fires,  and  these 
showed  that  the  brigands  were  being  driven 
back. 

The  guards  could  endure  this  no  longer. 

"  They  are  beating  us,"  cried  one  of  the  men, 
with  a  curse.  "We  must  go  and  fight." 

"  What  shall  we  do  with  these  prisoners  ?" 

"Tie  them  and  leave  them." 

"  Have  you  a  rope  ?" 

"No.     There  is  one  by  the  grave." 

"Let's  take  the  prisoners  there  and  bind 
them." 

This  proposition  was  accepted  ;  and,  seizing 
the  priest  and  Ethel,  the  four  men  hurried 
them  back  to  the  grave.  The  square  hole  lay 
there  just  beside  them,  with  the  earth  by  its 
side.  Ethel  tried  to  see  into  it,  but  was  not 
near  enough  to  do  so.  One  of  the  men  found 
the  rope,  and  began  in  great  haste  to  bind  the 
arms  of  the  priest  behind  him.  Another  be 
gan  to  bind  Ethel  in  the  same  way. 

But  now  there  came  loud  cries,  and  the  rush 
of  men  near  them.  A  loud,  stern  voice  was 
encouraging  the  men. 

"On!  on!"  he  cried.  "Follow  me!  We'll 
drive  them  back!" 

Saying  this,  a  man  hurried  on,  followed  by 
a  score  of  brigands. 

It  was  Girasole. 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


119 


He  had  been  guarding  the  woods  at  this 
side  when  he  had  seen  the  rush  that  had  been 
made  farther  up.  He  had  seen  his  men  driven 
in,  and  was  now  hurrying  up  to  the  place  to 
retrieve  the  battle.  As  he  was  running  on  he 
came  up  to  the  party  at  the  grave. 

He  stopped. 

"  What's  this  ?"  he  cried. 

"The  prisoners — we  were  securing  them." 

It  was  now  lighter  than  it  had  been,  and 
dawn  was  not  far  off.  The  features  of  Gira- 
sole  were  plainly  distinguishable.  They  were 
convulsed  with  the  most  furious  passion,  which 
was  not  caused  so  much  by  the  rage  of  conflict 
as  by  the  sight  of  the  prisoners.  He  had  sus 
pected  treachery  on  their  part,  and  had  spared 
them  for  a  time  only  so  as  to  see  whether  his 
suspicions  were  true  or  not.  But  now  this 
sudden  assault  by  night,  conducted  so  skillfully, 
and  by  such  a  powerful  force,  pointed  clearly 
to  treachery,  as  he  saw  it,  and  the  ones  who  to 
him  seemed  most  prominent  in  guilt  were  the 
priest  and  Ethel. 

His  suspicions  were  quite  reasonable  under 
the  circumstances.  Here  was  a  priest  whom 
he  regarded  as  his  natural  enemy.  These  brig 
ands  identified  themselves  with  republicans 
and  Garibaldians  whenever  it  suited  their  pur 
poses  to  do  so,  and  consequently,  as  such,  they 
were  under  the  condemnation  of  the  Pope  ;  and 
any  priest  might  think  he  was  doing  the  Pope 
good  service  by  betraying  those  who  were  his 
enemies.  As  to  this  priest,  every  thing  was 
against  him.  He  lived  close  by;  every  step 
of  the  country  was  no  doubt  familiar  to  him ; 
he  had  come  to  the  camp  under  very  suspicious 
circumstances,  bringing  with  him  a  stranger  in 
disguise.  He  had  given  plausible  answers  to 
the  cross-questioning  of  Girasole ;  but  those 
were  empty  words,  which  went  for  nothing  in 
the  presence  of  the  living  facts  that  now  stood 
before  him  in  the  presence  of  the  enemy. 

These  thoughts  had  all  occurred  to  Girasole, 
and  the  sight  of  the  two  prisoners  kindled  his 
rage  to  madness.  It  was  the  deadliest  pur 
pose  of  vengeance  that  gleamed  in  his  eyes 
as  he  looked  upon  them,  and  they  knew  it. 
He  gave  one  glance,  and  then  turned  to  his 
men. 

"  On  !  on  !"  he  cried  ;  "  I  will  join  you  in  an 
instant ;  and  you,"  he  said  to  the  guards, 
"wait  a  moment." 

The  brigands  rushed  on  with  shouts  to  as 
sist  their  comrades  in  the  fight,  while  the  other 
four  waited. 

All  this  time  the  fight  had  not  ceased.  The 
air  was  filled  with  the  reports  of  rifle-shots,  the 
shouts  of  men,  the  yells  of  the  wounded.  The 
flashes  seemed  to  be  gradually  drawing  nearer, 
as  though  the  assailants  were  still  driving  the 
brigands.  But  their  progress  was  slow,  for  the 
fighting  was  earned  on  among  the  trees,  and 
the  brigands  resisted  stubbornly,  retreating 
from  cover  to  cover,  and  stopping  every  mo 
ment  to  make  a  fresh  stand.  But  the  assail 
ants  had  gained  much  ground,  and  were  al 


ready  close  by  the  borders  of  the  lake,  and  ad 
vancing  along  toward  the  old  stone  house. 

The  robbers  had  not  succeeded  in  binding 
their  prisoners.  The  priest  and  Ethel  both 
stood  where  they  had  encountered  Girasole. 
and  the  ropes  fell  from  the  robbers'  hands  at 
the  new  interruption.  The  grave  with  its 
mound  was  only  a  few  feet  away. 

Girasole  had  a  pistol  in  his  left  hand  and  a 
sword  in  his  right.  He  sheathed  his  sword  and 
drew  another  pistol,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed 
steadily  all  the  while  upon  his  victims. 

"You  needn't  bind  these  prisoners,"  said 
Girasole,  grimly  ;  "I  know  a  better  way  to  se 
cure  them." 

"In  the  name  of  God,"  cried  the  priest,  "1 
implore  you  not  to  shed  innocent  blood!" 

"  Pooh !"  said  Girasole. 

"This  lady  is  innocent;  you  wrll  at  least 
spare  her!" 

"She  shall  die  first!"  said  Girasole,  in  a 
fury,  and  reached  out  his  hand  to  grasp  Ethel. 
The  priest  flung  himself  forward  between  the 
two.  Girasole  dashed  him  aside. 

"Give  us  time  to  pray,  for  God's  sake — 
one  moment  to  pray!" 

"Not  a  moment!"  cried  Girasole,  grasping 
at  Ethel. 

Ethel  gave  a  loud  shriek  and  started  away  in 
horror.  Girasole  sprang  after  her.  The  four 
men  turned  to  seize  her.  With  a  wild  and 
frantic  energy,  inspired  by  the  deadly  terror 
that  was  in  her  heart,  she  bounded  away  to 
ward  the  grave. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

BURIED   ALIVE. 

HAWBUKY  last  vanished  from  the  scene  to  a 
place  which  is  but  seldom  resorted  to  by  a  liv 
ing  man.  Once  inside  of  his  terrible  retreat  he 
became  a  prey  to  feelings  of  the  most  varied 
and  harrowing  character,  in  the  midst  of  which 
there  was  a  suspense,  twofold,  agonizing,  and 
intolerable.  First  of  all,  his  suspense  was  for 
Ethel,  and  then  for  himself.  In  that  narrow 
and  restricted  retreat  his  senses  soon  became 
sharpened  to  an  unusual  degree  of  acuteness. 
Every  touch  against  it  communicated  itself  to 
his  frame,  as  though  the  wood  of  his  inclosure 
had  become  part  of  himself;  and  every  sound 
intensified  itself  to  an  extraordinary  degree  of 
distinctness,  as  though  the  temporary  loss  of 
vision  had  been  compensated  for  by  an  exag 
geration  of  the  sense  of  hearing.  This  was 
particularly  the  case  as  the  priest  drove  in  the 
screws.  He  heard  the  shuffle  on  the  stairs,  the 
whisper  to  Ethel,  her  retreat,  and  the  ascending 
footsteps  ;  while  at  the  same  time  he  was  aware 
of  the  unalterable  coolness  of  the  priest,  who 
kept  calmly  at  his  work  until  the  very  last  mo 
ment.  The  screws  seemed  to  enter  his  owu 
frame,  and  the  slight  noise  which  was  made, 
inaudible  as  it  was  to  others,  to  him  seemed 
loud  enough  to  rouse  all  in  the  house. 


120 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


Then  he  felt  himself  raised  and  carried  down 
stairs.  Fortunately  he  had  got  in  with  his 
feet  toward  the  door,  and  as  that  end  was  car 
ried  out  first,  his  descent  of  the  stairs  was  not 
attended  with  the  inconvenience  which  he 
might  have  felt  had  it  been  taken  down  in  an 
opposite  direction. 

One  fact  gave  him  very  great  relief,  for  he 
had  feared  that  his  breathing  would  be  diffi 
cult.  Thanks,  however,  to  the  precautions  of 
the  priest,  he  felt  no  difficulty  at  all  in  that  re 
spect.  The  little  bits  of  wood  which  prevented 
the  lid  from  resting  close  to  the  coffin  formed 
apertures  which  freely  admitted  all  the  air  that 
was  necessary. 

He  was  borne  on  thus  from  the  house  toward 
the  grave,  and  heard  the  voice  of  the  priest 
from  time  to  time,  and  rightly  supposed  that 
the  remarks  of  the  priest  were  addressed  not 
so  much  to  the  brigands  as  to  himself,  so  as  to 
let  him  know  that  he  was  not  deserted.  The 
journey  to  the  grave  was  accomplished  without 
any  inconvenience,  and  the  coffin  was  at  length 
put  upon  the  ground. 

Then  it  was  lowered  into  the  grave. 

There  was  something  in  this  which  was  so 
horrible  to  Hawbury  that  an  involuntary  shud 
der  passed  through  every  nerve,  and  all  the 
terror  of  the  grave  and  the  bitterness  of  death 
in  that  one  moment  seemed  to  descend  upon 
him.  He  had  not  thought  of  this,  and  conse 
quently  was  not  prepared  for  it.  He  had  ex 
pected  that  he  would  be  put  down  somewhere 
on  the  ground,  and  that  the  priest  would  be 
able  to  get  rid  of  the  men,  and  effect  his  liber 
ation  before  it  had  gone  so  far. 

It  required  an  effort  to  prevent  himself  from 
crying  out ;  and  longer  efforts  were  needed  and 
more  time  before  he  could  regain  any  portion 
of  his  self-control.  He  now  heard  the  priest 
performing  the  burial  rites ;  these  seemed  to 
him  to  be  protracted  to  an  amazing  length ; 
and  so,  indeed,  they  were ;  but  to  the  inmate 
of  that  grave  the  time  seemed  longer  far  than 
it  did  to  those  who  were  outside.  A  thousand 
thoughts  swept  through  his  mind,  and  a  thou 
sand  fears  swelled  within  his  heart.  At  last 
the  suspicion  came  to  him  that  the  priest  him 
self  was  unable  to  do  any  better,  and  this  sus 
picion  was  confirmed  as  he  detected  the  efforts 
which  he  made  to  get  the  men  to.  leave  the 
grave.  This  was  particularly  evident  when  he 
pretended  to  hear  an  alarm,  by  which  he  hoped 
to  get  rid  of  the  brigands.  It  failed,  however, 
and  with  this  failure  the  hopes  of  Hawbury 
sank  lower  than  ever. 

But  the  climax  of  his  horror  was  attained 
as  the  first  clod  fell  upon  his  narrow  abode. 
It  seemed  like  a  death-blow.  He  felt  it  as  if 
it  had  struck  himself,  and  for  a  moment  it  was 
as  though  he  had  been  stunned.  The  dull, 
heavy  sound  which  those  heard  who  stood 
above,  to  his  ears  became  transformed  and  en 
larged,  and  extended  to  something  like  a  thun 
der-peal,  with  long  reverberations  through  his 
now  fevered  and  distempered  bruin.  Other 


clods  fell,  and  still  others,  and  the  work  went 
on  till  his  brain  reeled,  and  under  the  mighty 
emotions  of  the  hour  his  reason  began  to  give 
way.  Then  all  his  fortitude  and  courage  sank. 
All  thought  left  him  save  the  consciousness  of 
the  one  horror  that  had  now  fixed  itself  upon 
his  soul.  It  was  intolerable.  In  another  mo 
ment  his  despair  would  have  overmastered  him, 
and  under  its  impulse  he  would  have  burst 
through  all  restraint,  and  turned  all  his  ener 
gies  toward  forcing  himself  from  his  awful  pris 
on  house. 

He  turned  himself  over.  He  gathered  him 
self  up  as  well  as  he  could.  Already  he  was 
bracing  himself  for  a  mighty  effort  to  burst  up 
the  lid,  when  suddenly  the  voice  of  Girasole 
struck  upon  his  ear,  and  a  wild  fear  for  Ethel 
came  to  his  heart,  and  the  anguish  of  that  fear 
checked  at  once  all  further  thought  of  himself. 

He  lay  still  and  listened.  He  did  this  the 
more  patiently  as  the  men  also  stopped  from 
their  work,  and  as  the  hideous  earth-clods  no 
longer  fell  down.  He  listened.  From  the 
conversation  he  gathered  pretty  accurately  the 
state  of  affairs.  He  knew  that  Ethel  was 
there ;  that  she  had  been  discovered  and 
dragged  forth  ;  that  she  was  in  danger.  He 
listened  in  the  anguish  of  a  new  suspense. 
He  heard  the  words  of  the  priest,  his  calm  de 
nial  of  treachery,  his  quiet  appeal  to  Girasole's 
good  sense.  Then  he  heard  the  decision  of 
Girasole,  and  the  party  walked  away  with  their 
prisoners,  and  he  was  left  alone. 

Alone ! 

At  any  other  time  it  would  have  been  a  ter 
rible  thing  thus  to  be  left  alone  in  such  a  place, 
but  now  to  him  who  was  thus  imprisoned  it  af 
forded  a  great  relief.  The  work  of  burial, 
with  all  its  hideous  accompaniments,  was  stayed. 
He  could  collect  his  senses  and  make  up  his 
mind  as  to  what  he  should  do. 

Now,  first  of  all,  he  determined  to  gain  more  air 
if  possible.  The  earth  that  had  fallen  had  cov 
ered  up  many  of  the  chinks,  so  that  his  breath 
ing  had  become  sensibly  more  difficult.  His 
confinement,  with  this  oppression  of  his  breath 
ing,  was  intolerable.  He  therefore  braced 
himself  once  more  to  make  an  effort.  The 
coffin  was  large  and  rudely  constructed,  being 
merely  an  oblong  box.  He  had  more  play  to 
his  limbs  than  he  could  have  had  in  one  of  a 
more  regular  construction,  and  thus  he  was 
able  to  bring  a  great  effort  to  bear  upon  the 
lid.  He  pressed.  The  screws  gave  way.  He- 
lifted  it  up  to  some  distance.  He  drew  in  a 
long  draught  of  fresh  air,  and  felt  in  that  one 
draught  that  he  received  new  life  and  strength 
and  hope. 

He  now  lay  still  and  thought  about  what  lie 
should  do  next.  If  it  had  only  been  himself, 
he  would,  of  course,  have  escaped  in  that  first 
instant,  and  fled  to  the  woods.  But  the 
thought  of  Ethel  detained  him. 

What  was  her  position ;  and  what  could  he 
do  to  save  her?  This  was  his  thought. 

He  knew  that  she,  together  with  the  priest, 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


121 


•  IN   AM    INSTANT  THE  OCCUPANT   OF  TUB   GRAVE  SPRANG  FOBTII. 


was  in  the  hands  of  four  of  the  brigands,  who 
were  commanded  to  keep  their  prisoners  safe 
at  the  peril  of  their  lives.  Where  they  were 
he  did  not  know,  nor  could  he  tell  whether  she 
was  near  or  at  a  distance.  Girasole  had  led 
them  away. 

He  determined  to  look  out  and  watch, 
perceived  that  this  grave,  in  the  heart  of  the 
brigands'  camp,  afforded  the  very  safest  place 
in  which  he  could  be  for  the  purpose  of  watch 
ing.  Girasole's  words  had  indicated  that 
the  work  of  burial  would  not  be  resumed  that 
night,  and  if  any  passers-by  should  come  they 
would  avoid  such  a  place  as  this.  Here,  then, 
he  could  stay  until  dawn  at  least,  and  watch 
unobserved.  Perhaps  he  could  find  where 
Ethel  was  guarded;  perhaps  he  could  do  some 
thing  to  distract  the  attention  of  the  brigands, 
and  afford  her  an  opportunity  for  flight. 

He  now  arose,  and,  kneeling  in  the  coffin, 
he  raised  the  lid.  The  earth  that  was  upon  it 
fell  down  inside.  He  tilted  the  lid  up,  and 
holding  it  up  thus  with  one  hand,  he  put  his 
head  carefully  out  of  the  grave,  and  looked  out 


n  the  direction  where  Girasole  had  gone  with 
lis  prisoners.  The  knoll  to  which  he  had  led 
them  was  a  very  conspicuous  place,  and  had 
probably  been  se'lected  for  that  reason,  since  it 
iiould  be  under  his  own  observation,  from  time 
to  time,  even  at  a  distance.  It  was  about  half 
way  between  the  grave  and  the  nearest  fire, 
which  fire,  though  low,  still  gave  forth  some 
light,  and  the  light  was  in  a  line  with  the  knoll 
to  Hawbury's  eyes.  The  party  on  the  knoll, 
therefore,  appeared  thrown  out  into  relief  by 
the  faint  fire-light  behind  them,  especially  the 
priest  and  Ethel. 

And  now  Hawbury  kept  his  watch,  and 
looked  and  listened  and  waited,  ever  mindful 
of  his  own  immediate  neighborhood,  and  guard 
ing  carefully  against  any  approach.  But  his 
own  place  was  in  gloom,  and  no  one  would 
have  thought  of  looking  there,  so  that  he  was 
unobserved. 

But  all  his  watching  gave  him  no  assistance 
toward  finding  out  any  way  of  rescuing  Ethel. 
He  saw  the  vigilant  guard  around  the  prison 
ers.  Once  or  twice  he  saw  a  movement  among 


122 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


them,  but  it  was  soon  over,  and  resulted  in 
nothing.  Now  he  began  to  despond,  and  to 
speculate  in  his  mind  as  to  whether  Ethel  was 
in  any  danger  or  not.  He  began  to  calculate 
the  time  that  might  be  required  to  go  for  help 
with  which  to  attack  the  brigands.  He  won 
dered  what  reason  Girasole  might  have  to  in 
jure  Ethel.  But  whatever  hope  he  had  that 
mercy  might  be  shown  her  was  counterbal 
anced  by  his  own  experience  of  Girasole's 
cruelty,  and  his  knowledge  of  his  merciless 
character. 

Suddenly  he  was  roused  by  the  rifle-shot  and 
the  confusion  that  followed.  He  saw  the  party 
on  the  mound  start  to  their  feet.  He  heard 
the  shots  that  succeeded  the  first  one.  He 
saw  shadows  darting  to  and  fro.  Then  the 
confusion  grew  worse,  and  all  the  sounds  of 
battle  arose — the  cries,  the  shrieks,  and  the 
stern  words  of  command. 

All  this  filled  him  with  hope.  An  attack 
was  being  made.  They  might  all  be  saved. 
He  could  see  that  the  brigands  were  being 
driven  back,  and  that  the  assailants  were  press 
ing  on. 

Then  he  saw  the  party  moving  from  the 
knoll.  It  was  already  much  lighter.  They 
advanced  toward  him.  He  sank  down  and 
waited.  He  had  no  fear  now  that  this  party 
would  complete  his  burial.  He  thought  they 
were  flying  with  the  prisoners.  If  so,  the  as 
sailants  would  soon  be  here;  he  could  join 
them,  and  lead  them  on  to  the  rescue  of 
Ethel. 

He  lay  low  with  the  lid  over  him.  He  heard 
them  close  beside  him.  Then  there  was  the 
noise  of  rushing  men,  and  Girasole's  voice 
arose. 

He  heard  all  that  followed. 

Then  Ethel's  shriek  sounded  out,  as  she 
sprang  toward  the  grave. 

In  an  instant  the  occupant  of  the  grave, 
seizing  the  lid,  raised  it  up,  and  with  a  wild 
yell  sprang  forth. 

The  effect  was  tremendous. 

The  brigands  thought  the  dead  Antonio  had 
come  to  life.  They  did  not  stop  to  look,  but 
with  a  howl  of  awful  terror,  and  in  an  anguish 
of  fright,  they  turned  and  ran  for  their  lives ! 

Girasole  saw  him  too,  with  equal  horror,  if 
not  greater.  He  saw  Hawbury.  It  was  the 
man  whom  he  had  killed  stone-dead  with  his 
own  hand.  He  was  there  before  him — or  was 
it  his  ghost  ?  For  an  instant  horror  paralyzed 
him  ;  and  then,  with  a  yell  like  a  madman's,  he 
leaped  back  and  fled  after  the  others. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

FLY  !    FLY ! 

IN  the  midst  of  that  wild  uproar  which  had 
roused  Dacres  and  Mrs.  Willoughby  there  was 
nothing  that  startled  him  so  much  as  her  decla 
ration  that  she  was  not  Arethusa.  He  stood  be-  i 


wildered.  While  she  was  listening  to  the 
sounds,  he  was  listening  to  the  echo  of  her 
words ;  while  she  was  wondering  at  the  cause 
of  such  a  tumult,  he  was  wondering  at  this  dis 
closure.  In  a  moment  a  thousand  little  things 
suggested  themselves  as  he  stood  there  in  his 
confusion,  which  little  things  all  went  to  throw 
a  flood  of  light  upon  her  statement,  and  prove 
that  she  was  another  person  than  that  "  demon 
wife"  who  had  been  the  cause  of  all  his  woes. 
Her  soft  glance,  her  gentle  manner,  her  sweet 
and  tender  expression — above  all,  the  tone  of 
her  voice ;  all  these  at  once  opened  his  eyes. 
In  the  course  of  their  conversation  she  had 
spoken  in  a  low  tone,  often  in  a  whisper,  so 
that  this  fact  with  regard  to  the  difference  of 
voice  had  not  been  perceptible ;  but  her  last 
words  were  spoken  louder,  and  he  observed  the 
difference. 

Now  the  tumult  grew  greater,  and  the  re 
ports  of  the  rifles  more  frequent.  The  noise 
was  communicated  to  the  house,  and  in  the 
rooms  and  the  hall  below  there  were  tramplings 
of  feet,  and  hurryings  to  and  fro,  and  the  rat 
tle  of  arms,  and  the  voices  of  men,  in  the  midst 
of  which  rose  the  stern  command  of  Girasole. 
"  Forward !  Follow  me  !" 
Then  the  distant  reports  grew  nearer  and 
yet  nearer,  and  all  the  men  rushed  from  the 
house,  and  their  tramp  was  heard  outside  as 
they  hurried  away  to  the  scene  of  conflict. 

"It's  an  attack!  The  brigands  are  at 
tacked  !"  cried  Mrs.  Willoughby. 

Dacres  said  nothing.  He  was  collecting  his 
scattered  thoughts. 

"Oh,  may  Heaven   grant  that  we  may  be 
saved !     Oh,  it  is  the  troops — it  must  be  !     Oh, 
Sir,  come,  come  ;  help  us  to  escape !     My  dar 
ling  sister  is  here.     Save  her!" 
"  Your  sister  ?"  cried  Dacres. 
"  Oh  yes  ;  come,  save  her!     My  sister — my 
darling  Minnie!" 

With  these  words  Mrs.  Willoughby  rushed 
from  the  room. 

"  Her  sister !  her  sister !"  repeated  Dacres — 
"Minnie  Fay!  Her  sister!  Good  Lord! 
What  a  most  infernal  ass  I've  been  making  of 
myself  this  last  month  !" 

He  stood  still  for  a  few  moments,  overwhelmed 
by  this  thought,  and  apparently  endeavoring  to 
realize  the  full  extent  and  enormous  size  and 
immense  proportions,  together  with  the  infinite 
extent  of  ear,  appertaining  to  the  ass  to  which 
he  had  transformed  himself;  but  finally  he 
shook  his  head  despondingly,  as  though  he 
gave  it  up  altogether.  Then  he  hurried  after 
Mrs.  Willoughby. 

Mrs.  Willoughby  rushed  into  Minnie's  room, 
and  clasped  her  sister  in  her  arms  with  frantic 
tears  and  kisses. 

"  Oh,  my  precious  darling  !"  she  exclaimed. 
"Oh  dear!"  said  Minnie,  "isn't  this  reallv 
too  bad  ?  I  was  so  tired,  you  know,  and  I  was 
just  beginning  to  go  to  sleep,  when  those  horrid 
men  began  firing  their  guns.  I  really  do  think 
that  every  body  is  banded  together  to  tease  me. 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


123 


I  do  wish  they'd  all  go  away  and  let  me  have  a 
little  peace.  I  am  so  tired  and  sleepy !" 

While  Minnie  was  saying  this  her  sister  was 
embracing  her  and  kissing  her  and  crying  over 
her. 

"Oh,  come,  Minnie,  come!"  she  cried; 
"  make  haste.  We  must  fly !" 

"Where  to?"  said  Minnie,  wonderingly. 

"Any  where — any  where  out  of  this  awful 
place  :  into  the  woods." 

"Why,  I  don't  see  the  use  of  going  into  the 
woods.  It's  all  wet,  you  know.  Can't  we  get 
a  carriage  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  no ;  we  must  not  wait.  They'll  all 
be  back  soon  and  kill  us. " 

"Kill  us!  What  for?"  cried  Minnie. 
"What  do  you  mean?  How  silly  you  are, 
Kitty  darling!" 

At  this  moment  Dacres  entered.  The  im 
age  of  the  immeasurable  ass  was  still  very 
prominent  in  his  mind,  and  he  had  lost  all  his 
fever  and  delirium.  One  thought  only  re 
mained  (besides  that  of  the  ass,  of  course),  and 
that  was — escape. 

"  Are  you  ready  ?"  he  asked,  hurriedly. 

"  Oh  yes,  yes  ;  let  us  make  haste,"  said  Mrs. 
Willoughby. 

"I  think  no  one  is  below,"  said  he  ;  "but  I 
will  go  first.  There  is  a  good  place  close  by. 
We  will  run  there.  If  I  fall,  you  must  run  on 
and  try  to  get  there.  It  is  the  bank  just  oppo 
site.  Once  there,  you  are  in  the  woods.  Do 
you  understand?" 

"Oh  yes,  yes!"  cried  Mrs.  Willoughby. 
"Haste!  Oh,  haste!" 

Dacres  turned,  and  Mrs.  Willoughby  had 
just  grasped  Minnie's  hand  to  follow,  when 
suddenly  they  heard  footsteps  below. 

They  stopped,  appalled. 

The  robbers  had  not  all  gone,  then.  Some 
of  them  must  have  remained  on  guard.  But 
how  many  ? 

Dacres  listened  and  the  ladies  listened,  and 
in  their  suspense  the  beating  of  each  heart  was 
audible.  The  footsteps  below  could  be  heard 
going  from  room  to  room,  and  pausing  in 
each. 

"There  seems  to  be  only  one  man,"  said 
Dacres,  in  a  whisper.  "  If  there  is  only  one, 
I'll  engage  to  manage  him.  While  I  grapple, 
you  run  for  your  lives.  Remember  the  bank." 

"Oh  yes;  but  oh,  Sir,  there  may  be  more," 
said  Mrs.  Willoughby. 

"I'll  see,"  said  Dacres,  softly. 

He  went  cautiously  to  the  front  window  and 
looked  out.  By  the  increased  light  he  could 
see  quite  plainly.  No  men  were  visible.  From 
afar  the  noise  of  the  strife  came  to  his  ears 
louder  than  ever,  and  he  could  see  the  flashes 
of  the  rifles. 

Dacres  stole  back  again  from  the  window 
and  went  to  the  door.  He  stood  and  listened. 

And  now  the  footsteps  came  across  the  hall 
to  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  Dacres  could  see  the 
figure  of  a  solitary  man,  but  it  was  dark  in  the 
hallj  and  he  could  not  make  him  out. 


He  began  to  think  that  there  was  only  one 
enemy  to  encounter. 

The  man  below  put  his  foot  on  the  lowest 
stair. 

Then  he  hesitated. 

Dacres  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  other  door 
way,  which  was  nearer  to  the  head  of  the 
stairs,  and  prepared  to  spring  as  soon  as  the 
stranger  should  come  within  reach.  But  the 
stranger  delayed  still. 

At  length  he  spoke : 

"  Hallo,  up  there!" 

The  sound  of  those  simple  words  produced 
an  amazing  effect  upon  the  hearers.  Dacres 
sprang  down  with  a  cry  of  joy.  "Come, 
come  !"  he  shouted  to  the  ladies  ;  "friends  are 
here ! "  And  running  down  the  stairs,  he 
reached  the  bottom  and  grasped  the  stranger 
by  both  arms. 

In  the  dim  light  he  could  detect  a  tall,  slim, 
sinewy  form,  with  long,  black,  ragged  hair  and 
white  neck-tie. 

"You'd  best  get  out  of  this,  and  quick, 
too,"  said  the  Rev.  Saul  Tozer.  "They're  all 
off  now,  but  they'll  be  back  here  in  less  than  no 
time.  I  jest  thought  I'd  look  in  to  see  if  any 
of  you  folks  was  around." 

By  this  time  the  ladies  were  both  at  the  bot 
tom  of  the  stairs. 

"Come!"  said  Tozer;  "hurry  up,  folks. 
I'll  take  one  lady  and  you  take  t'other." 

"  Do  you  know  the  woods  ?" 

"Like  a  book." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Dacres. 

He  grasped  Mrs.  Willoughby's  hand  and 
started. 

"But  Minnie!"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby. 

"  You  had  better  let  him  take  her ;  it's  safer 
for  all  of  us,"  said  Dacres. 

Mrs.  Willoughby  looked  back  as  she  was 
dragged  on  after  Dacres,  and  saw  Tozer  fol 
lowing  them,  holding  Minnie's  hand.  This 
reassured  her. 

Dacres  dragged  her  on  to  the  foot  of  the 
bank.  Here  she  tried  to  keep  up  with  him, 
but  it  was  steep,  and  she  could  not. 

Whereupon  Dacres  stopped,  and,  without  a 
word,  raised  her  in  his  arms  as  though  she  were 
a  little  child,  and  ran  up  the  bank.  He 
plunged  into  the  woods.  Then  he  ran  on  far 
ther.  Then  he  turned  and  doubled. 

Mrs.  Willoughby  begged  him  to  put  her 
down. 

"No,"  said  he  ;  "they  are  behind  us.  You 
can  not  go  fast  enough.  I  should  have  to  wait 
and  defend  you,  and  then  we  would  both  be 
lost." 

"But,  oh  !  we  are  losing  Minnie." 

"  No,  we  are  not,"  cried  Dacres ;  "  that  man 
is  ten  times  stronger  than  I  am.  He  is  a  per 
fect  elephant  in  strength.  He  dashed  past  me 
up  the  hill." 

"I  didn't  see  him." 

"Your  face  was  turned  the  other  way.  Ho 
is  ahead  of  us  now  somewhere." 

"Oh,  I  wish  we  could  catch  up  to  him." 


124 


THE  AMERICAN  BAROX. 


"AT  THIS   DAOEE8   BC9HEI)  ON   FA8TEB." 


At  this  Dacres  rushed  on  faster.  The  effort 
was  tremendous.  He  leaped  over  fallen  tim 
bers,  he  burst  through  the  underbrush. 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  you'll  kill  yourself  if  you  go 
so  fast,"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby.  "We  can't 
catch  up  to  them." 

At  this  Dacres  slackened  his  pace,  and  went 
on  more  carefully.  She  again  begged  him  to 
put  her  down.  He  again  refused.  Upon  this 
she  felt  perfectly  helpless,  and  recalled,  in  a 
vague  way,  Minnie's  ridiculous  question  of 
"  How  would  you  like  to  be  run  away  with  by 
a  great,  big,  horrid  man,  Kitty  darling?" 

Then  she  began  to  think  he  was  insane,  and 
felt  very  anxious. 

At  last  Dacres  stopped.  He  was  utterly  ex 
hausted.  He  was  panting  terribly.  It  had 
been  a  fearful  journey.  He  had  run  along  the 
bank  up  to  that  narrow  valley  which  he  had 
traversed  the  day  before,  and  when  he  stopped 
it  was  on  the  top  of  that  precipice  where  he  had 
formerly  rested,  and  where  he  had  nurtured 
such  dark  purposes  against  Mrs.  Willoughby. 

Mrs.  Willoughby  looked  at  him,  full  of  pity, 
lie  was  utterly  broken  down  by  this  last  effort. 


"Oh  dear!"  she  thought.  "Is  he  sane  or 
insane?  What  am  I  to  do?  It  is  dreadful  to 
have  to  go  011  and  humor  his  queer  fancies." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

MIXXIE'S    LAST    LIFE-PRESEKVER. 

WHEN  Tozer  started  after  Dacres  he  led 
Minnie  by  the  hand  for  only  a  little  distance. 
On  reaching  the  acclivity  he  seized  her  in  his 
arms,  thus  imitating  Dacres's  example,  and 
rushed  up,  reaching  the  top  before  the  other. 
Then  he  plunged  into  the  woods,  and  soon  be 
came  separated  from  his  companion. 

Once  in  the  woods,  he  went  along  quite  leis 
urely,  carrying  Minnie  without  any  difficulty, 
and  occasionally  addressing  to  her  a  soothing 
remark,  assuring  her  that  she  was  safe.  Min 
nie,  however,  made  no  remark  of  any  kind,  good 
or  bad,  but  remained  quite  silent,  occupied  with 
her  own  thoughts.  At  length  Tozer  stopped 
and  put  her  down.  It  was  a  place  upon  the 
edge  of  a  cliff  on  the  shore  of  the  lake,  and  as 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"  '  WORSE    AND    WOBSB,'  SAID  TOZER." 

much  as  a  mile  from  the  house.  The  cliff  was 
almost  fifty  feet  high,  and  was  perpendicular. 
All  around  was  the  thick  forest,  and  it  was  un 
likely  that  such  a  place  could  be  discovered. 

"Here,"  said  he;  "we've  got  to  stop  here, 
and  it's  about  the  right  place.  We  couldn't 
get  any  where  nigh  to  the  soldiers  without  the 
brigands  seeing  us  ;  so  we'll  wait  here  till  the 
fight's  over,  and  the  brigands  all  chased  off." 

"The  soldiers!  what  soldiers?"  asked  Min- 
•  nie. 

"Why,  they're  having  a  fight  over  there — 
the  soldiers  are  attacking  the  brigands." 

"Well,  I  didn't  know.  Nobody  told  me. 
And  did  you  come  with  the  soldiers?" 

"  Well,  not  exactly.  I  came  with  the  priest 
and  the  young  lady." 

"But  you  were  not  at  the  house?" 

"  No.  They  wouldn't  take  me  all  the  way. 
The  priest  said  I  couldn't  be  disguised — but  I 
don't  see  why  not — so  he  left  me  in  the  woods 
till  he  came  back.  And  then  the  soldiers  came, 
and  we  crept  on  till  we  came  nigh  the  lake. 
Well,  then  I  stole  away ;  and  when  they  made 
an  attack  the  brigands  all  ran  there  to  fight,  and 
I  watched  till  I  saw  the  coast  clear ;  and  so  I 
came,  and  here  we  are." 

Minnie  now  was  quite  silent  and  preoccu 
pied,  and  occasionally  she  glanced  sadly  at 
Tozer  with  her  large,  pathetic,  child-like  eyes. 
It  was  a  very  piteous  look,  full  of  the  most  ten 
der  entreaty.  Tozer  occasionally  glanced  at 
her,  and  then,  like  her,  he  sat  silent,  involved 
in  his  own  thoughts. 

"And  so,"  said  Minnie  at  last,  "you're  not 
the  priest  himself?" 

"The  priest  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  no ;  I  don't  call  myself  a  priest.  I'm 
a  minister  of  the  Gospel." 


"Well,  you're  not  a  real  priest,  then." 

"  All  men  of  my  calling  are  real  priests — yes, 
priests  and  kings.  I  yield  to  no  man  in  the 
estimate  which  I  set  upon  my  high  and  holy 
calling." 

"  Oh,  but  I  mean  a  Roman  Catholic  priest," 
said  Minnie. 

" A  Roman  Catholic  priest !  Me!  Why, 
what  a  question!  Me!  a  Roman  Catholic! 
Why,  in  our  parts  folks  call  me  the  Protestant 
Champion." 

"  Oh,  and  so  you're  only  a  Protestant,  after 
all,"  said  Minnie,  in  a  disappointed  tone. 

"Only  a  Protestant!"  repeated  Tozer,  se 
verely—  "only  a  Protestant.  Why,  ain't  you 
one  yourself?" 

"Oh  yes;  but  I  hoped  you  were  the  other 
priest,  you  know.  I  did  so  want  to  have  a 
Roman  Catholic  priest  this  time." 

Tozer  was  silent.  It  struck  him  that  this 
young  lady  was  in  danger.  Her  wish  for  a  Ro 
man  Catholic  priest  boded  no  good.  She  had 
just  come  from  Rome.  No  doubt  she  had 
been  tampered  with.  Some  Jesuits  had  caught 
her,  and  had  tried  to  proselytize  her.  His  soul 
swelled  with  indignatiom  at  the  thought. 

"Oh  dear!"  said  Minnie  again. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Tozer,  in  a  sym 
pathizing  voice. 

"I'm  so  sorry." 

"What  for?" 

"Why,  that  you  saved  my  life,  you  know." 

"  Sorry  ?  sorry  ?  that  I  saved  your  life  ?"  re 
peated  Tozer,  in  amazement. 

"Oh,  well,  you  know,  I  did  so  want  to  be 
saved  by  a  Roman  Catholic  priest,  you  know." 

"To  be  saved  by  a  Roman  Catholic  priest !" 
repeated  Tozer,  pondering  these  words  in  his 
mind  as  he  slowly  pronounced  them.  He  could 
make  nothing  of  them  at  first,  but  finally  con 
cluded  that  they  concealed  some  half-suggested 
tendency  to  Rome. 

"I  don't  like  this — I  don't  like  this,"  he  said, 
solemnly. 

"What  don't  you  like?" 

"It's  dangerous.  It  looks  bad,"  said  Tozer, 
with  increased  solemnity. 

"What's  dangerous?  You  look  so  solemn 
that  you  really  make  me  feel  quite  nervous. 
What's  dangerous  ?" 

"  WThy,  your  words.  I  see  in  you,  I  think, 
a  kind  of  leaning  toward  Home." 

' '  It  isn't  Rome, "  said  Minnie.  ' '  I  don't  lean 
to  Rome.  I  only  lean  a  little  toward  a  Roman 
Catholic  priest." 

'•Worse  and  worse,"  said  Tozer.  "Dear! 
dear  !  dear !  worse  and  worse.  This  beats  all. 
Young  woman,  beware  !  But  perhaps  I  don't 
understand  you.  You  surely  don't  mean  that 
your  affections  are  engaged  to  any  Roman 
Catholic  priest.  You  can't  mean  that.  Why, 
they  can't  marry." 

"But  that's  just  what  I  like  them  so  for," 
said  Minnie.  "I  like  people  that  don't  marry  ; 
I  hate  people  that  want  to  marry." 

Tozer  turned  this  over  in  his  mind,  but  could 


126 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


make  nothing  of  it.  At  length  he  thought  he 
saw  in  this  an  additional  proof  that  she  had 
been  tampered  with  by  Jesuits  at  Rome.  He 
thought  he  saw  in  this  a  statement  of  her 
belief  in  the  Roman  Catholic  doctrine  of  ce 
libacy. 

He  shook  his  head  more  solemnly  than  ever. 

"  It's  not  Gospel,"  said  he.  "  It's  mere  hu 
man  tradition.  Why,  for  centuries  there  was 
a  married  priesthood  even  in  the  Latin  Church. 
Dunstan's  chief  measures  consisted  in  a  fierce 
war  on  the  married  clergy.  So  did  Hilde- 
brand's — Gregory  the  Seventh,  you  know.  The 
Church  at  Milan,  sustained  by  the  doctrines  of 
the  great  Ambrose,  always  preferred  a  married 
clergy.  The  worst  measures  of  Hildebrand 
were  against  these  good  pastors  and  their  wives. 
And  in  the  Eastern  Church  they  have  always 
had  it." 

Of  course  all  this  was  quite  beyond  Minnie  ; 
so  she  gave  a  little  sigh,  and  said  nothing. 

"  Now  as  to  Rome,"  resumed  Tozer.  "  Have 
you  ever  given  a  careful  study  to  the  Apoca 
lypse — not  a  hasty  reading,  as  people  generally 
do,  but  a  serious,  earnest,  and  careful  examina 
tion  ?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  haven't  any  idea  what  in  the 
world  you're  talking  about,"  said  Minnie.  "  I 
wish  you  wouldn't  talk  so.  I  don't  understand 
one  single  word  of  what  you  say." 

Tozer  started  and  stared  at  this.  It  was  a 
depth  of  ignorance  that  transcended  that  of  the 
other  young  lady  with  whom  he  had  conversed. 
But  he  attributed  it  all  to  "  Roman"  influences. 
They  dreaded  the  Apocalypse,  and  had  not  al 
lowed  either  of  these  young  ladies  to  become 
acquainted  with  its  tremendous  pages.  More 
over,  there  was .  something  else.  There  was  a 
certain  light  and  trifling  tone  which  she  used  in 
referring  to  these  things,  and  it  pained  him.  He 
sat  involved  in  a  long  and  very  serious  consid 
eration  of  her  case,  and  once  or  twice  looked 
at  her  with  so  very  peculiar  an  expression  that 
Minnie  began  to  feel  very  uneasy  indeed. 

Tozer  at  length  cleared  his  throat,  and  fixed 
upon  Minnie  a  very  affectionate  and  tender 
look. 

"  My  dear  young  friend,"  said  he,  "  have  you 
ever  reflected  upon  the  way  you  are  living  ?" 

At  this  Minnie  gave  him  a  frightened  little 
look,  and  her  head  fell. 

"  You  are  young  now,  but  you  can't  be  young 
always ;  youth  and  beauty  and  loveliness  all  are 
yours,  but  they  can't  last ;  and  now  is  the  time 
for  you  to  make  your  choice — now  in  life's  gay 
morn.  It  ain't  easy  when  you  get  old.  Re 
member  that,  my  dear.  Make  your  choice  now 
— now." 

"Oh  dear !"  said  Minnie;  "Iknewit.  But 
I  can't — and  I  don't  want  to — and  I  think  it's 
very  unkind  in  you.  I  don't  want  to  make  any 
choice.  I  don't  want  anv  of  you.  It's  so  hor 
rid." 

This  was  a  dreadful  shock  to  Tozer ;  but  he 
could  not  turn  aside  from  this  beautiful  yet 
erring  creature. 


"  Oh,  I  entreat  you — I  implore  you,  my  dear, 
dear — " 

"  I  do  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  to  me  that  way. 
and  call  me  your  dear.  I  don't  like  it ;  no,  not 
even  if  you  did  save  my  life,  though  really  I 
didn't  know  there  was  any  danger.  But  I'm 
not  your  dear. " 

And  Minnie  tossed  her  head  with  a  little  air 
of  determination,  as  though  she  had  quite  made 
up  her  mind  on  that  point. 

" Oh,  well  now,  really  now,"  said  Tozer,  " it 
was  only  a  natural  expression.  I  do  take  a 
deep  interest  in  you,  my — that  is — miss ;  I  feel 
a  sincere  regard  and  affection  and — " 

"  But  it's  no  use,"  said  Minnie.  "  You  really 
can't,  you  know ;  and  so,  why,  you  mustn't,  you 
know." 

Tozer  did  not  clearly  understand  this,  so  aft 
er  a  brief  pause  he  resumed : 

"But  what  I  was  saying  is  of  far  more  im 
portance.  I  referred  to  your  life.  Now  you're 
not  happy  as  you  are." 

"  Oh  yes,  but  I  am,"  said  Minnie,  briskly. 

Tozer  sighed. 

"  I'm  very  happy,"  continued  Minnie,  "  very, 
very  happy — that  is,  when  I'm  with  dear,  dar 
ling  Kitty,  and  dear,  dear  Ethel,  and  my  dar 
ling  old  Dowdy,  and  dear,  kind  papa." 

Tozer  sighed  again. 

"You  can't  be  truly  happy  thus,"  he  said, 
mournfully.  "You  may  think  you  are,  but 
you  ain't.  My  heart  fairly  yearns  over  you 
when  I  see  you,  so  young,  so  lovely,  and  so  in 
nocent  ;  and  I  know  you  can't  be  happy  as  you 
are.  You  must  live  otherwise.  And  oh,  I 
pray  you — I  entreat  you  to  set  your  affections 
elsewhere!" 

"  Well,  then,  I  think  it's  very,  very  horrid  in 
you  to  press  me  so,"  said,  Minnie,  with  some 
thing  actually  like  asperity  in  her  tone  ;  "  but 
it's  quite  impossible." 

"But  oh,  why?" 

"  Why,  because  I  don't  want  to  have  things 
any  different.  But  if  I  have  to  be  worried  and 
teased  so,  and  if  people  insist  on  it  so,  why, 
there's  only  one  that  I'll  ever  consent  to." 

"And  what  is  that?"  asked  Tozer,  looking 
at  her  with  the  most  affectionate  solicitude. 

"  Why,  it's  —  it's — "  Minnie  paused,  and 
looked  a  little  confused. 

"  It's  what  ?"  asked  Tozer,  with  still  deeper 
and  more  anxious  interest. 

"Why,  it's— it's— Rufus  K.  Gunn." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

THE    IMPATIENT    BARON. 

THE  brigands  had  resisted  stubbornly,  but 
finally  found  themselves  without  a  leader.  Gi- 
rasole  had  disappeared ;  and  as  his  voice  no 
longer  directed  their  movements,  they  began  to 
fall  into  confusion.  The  attacking  party,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  well  led,  and  made  a  steady 
advance,  driving  the  enemy  before  them.  At 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


127 


"THE  msoovEBY  OK  A  BODY  ON  THE  SHOEE  OF 

THE  LAKE." 

length  the  brigands  lost  heart,  and  took  to 
flight.  With  a  wild  cheer  the  assailants  fol 
lowed  in  pursuit.  But  the  fugitives  took  to 
the  forest,  and  were  soon  beyond  the  reach  of 
their  pursuers  in  its  familiar  intricacies,  and  the 
victors  were  summoned  back  by  the  sound  of  the 
trumpet. 

It  was  now  daylight,  and  as  the  conquering 
party  emerged  from  the  forest  they  showed  the 
uniform  of  the  Papal  Zouaves ;  while  their  lead 
er,  who  had  shown  himself  so  skillful  in  forest 
warfare,  proved  to  be  no  less  a  personage  than 
our  friend  the  Baron.  Led  by  him,  the  party  ad 
vanced  to  the  old  stone  house,  and  here,  draw 
ing  up  his  men  in  front,  their  leader  rushed  in, 
and  searched  every  room.  To  his  amazement, 
he  found  the  house  deserted,  its  only  inmate 
being  that  dead  brigand  whom  Girasole  had 
mistaken  for  Hawbury.  This  discovery  filled 
the  Baron  with  consternation.  He  had  ex 
pected  to  find  the  prisoners  here,  and  his  dis 
may  and  grief  were  excessive.  At  first  he  could 
not  believe  in  his  ill  luck ;  but  another  search 
convinced  him  of  it,  and  reduced  him  to  a  state 
of  perfect  bewilderment. 

But  he  was  not  one  who  could  long  remain 
inactive.  Feeling  confident  that  the  brigands 
were  scattered  every  where  in  headlong  flight, 
he  sent  his  men  out  in  different  directions,  into 
the  woods  and  along  the  shore,  to  see  if  they 
could  find  any  traces  of  the  lost  ones.  He  him 
self  remained  near  the  house,  so  as  to  direct 
the  search  most  efficiently.  After  about  an 
hour  they  came  back,  one  by  one,  without  being 
able  to  find  many  traces.  One  had  found  an 
empty  coffin  in  a  grave,  another  a  woman's 
hood,  a  third  had  found  a  scarf.  All  of  these 
had  endeavored  to  follow  up  these  traces,  but 


without  result.  Finally  a  man  approached  who 
announced  the  discovery  of  a  body  on  the  shore 
of  the  lake.  After  him  came  a  party  who  was 
carrying  the  corpse  for  the  inspection  of  their 
captain. 

The  Baron  went  to  look  at  it.  The  body 
showed  a  great  gap  in  the  skull.  On  ques 
tioning  the  men,  he  learned  that  they  had  found 
it  on  the  shore,  at  the  bottom  of  a  steep  rock, 
about  half-way  between  the  house  and  the  place 
where  they  had  first  emerged  from  the  woods. 
His  head  was  lying  pressed  against  a  sharp 
rock  in  such  a  way  that  it  was  evident  that  he 
had  fallen  over  the  cliff,  and  had  been  instantly 
killed.  The  Baron  looked  at  the  face,  and  rec 
ognized  the  features  of  Girasole.  He  ordered 
it  to  be  taken  away  and  laid  in  the  empty  grave 
for  future  burial. 

The  Baron  now  became  impatient.  This 
was  not  what  he  had  bargained  for  at  all.  At 
length  he  thought  that  they  might  have  fled, 
and  might  now  be  concealed  in  the  woods 
around ;  and  together  with  this  thought  there 
came  to  his  mind  an  idea  of  an  effective  way  to 
reach  them.  The  trumpeter  could  send  forth 
a  blast  which  could  be  heard  far  and  wide. 
But  what  might,  could,  would,  or  should  the 
trumpeter  sound  forth  which  should  give  the 
concealed  listeners  a  certainty  that  the  sum 
mons  came  from  friends  and  not  from  foes? 
This  the  Baron  puzzled  over  for  some  time. 
At  length  he  solved  this  problem  also,  and  tri 
umphantly. 

There  was  one  strain  which  the  trumpeter 
might  sound  that  could  not  be  mistaken.  It 
would  at  once  convey  to  the  concealed  hearers 
all  the  truth,  and  gently  woo  them  home.  It 
would  be  at  once  a  note  of  victory,  a  song  of 
joy,  a  call  of  love,  a  sound  of  peace,  and  an  in 
vitation — "Wanderer,  come  home!" 

Of  course  there  was  only  one  tune  that,  to 
the  mind  of  the  Baron,  was  capable  of  doing 
this. 

And  of  course  that  tune  was  "  Yankee  Doo 
dle." 

Did  the  trumpeter  know  it  ? 

Of  course  he  did. 

Who  does  not  know  it  ? 

All  men  know  that  tune.  Man  is  born  with 
an  innate  knowledge  of  the  strain  of  "  Yankee 
Doodle."  No  one  can  remember  when  he  first 
learned  it.  The  reason  is  because  he  never 
learned  it  at  all.  It  was  born  in  him. 

So  the  trumpeter  sounded  it  forth,  and  wild 
and  high  and  clear  and  far  the  sounds  arose ; 
and  it  was  "Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild 
echoes  flying;  and  answer,  echoes,  answer, 
Yankee  Doodle  dying." 

And  while  the  trumpet  sounded  the  Baron 
listened  and  listened,  and  walked  up  and  down, 
and  fretted  and  fumed  and  chafed,  and  I'm 
afraid  he  swore  a  little  too ;  and  at  last  he  was 
going  to  tell  the  trumpeter  to  stop  his  infernal 
noise,  when,  just  at  that  moment,  what  should 
he  see  all  of  a  sudden  emerging  from  the  woods 
but  three  figures ! 


128 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


And  I'll  leave  yon  to  imagine,  if  you  can,  the 
joy  and  delight  which  agitated  the  bosom  of  our 
good  Baron  as  he  recognized  among  these  three 
figures  the  well-known  face  and  form  of  his 
friend  Hawbury.  With  Hawbury  was  a  lady 
whom  the  Baron  remembered  having  seen  once 
in  the  upper  hall  of  a  certain  house  in  Rome, 
on  a  memorable  occasion,  when  he  stood  on  the 
stairs  calling  Min.  The  lady  was  very  austere 
then,  but  she  was  very  gracious  now,  and  very 
wonderfully  sweet  in  the  expression  of  her  face. 
And  with  them  was  a  stranger  in  the  garb  of  a 
priest. 

Now  as  soon  as  the  party  met  the  Baron,  who 
rushed  to  meet  them,  Hawbury  wrung  his  hand, 
and  stared  at  him  in  unbounded  astonishment. 

"  You  !"  he  cried ;  "  yourself,  old  boy  !  By 
Jove!" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Baron.  "  You  see,  the  mo 
ment  we  got  into  that  ambush  I  kept  my  eye 
open,  and  got  a  chance  to  spring  into  the  woods. 
There  I  was  all  right,  and  ran  for  it.  I  got 
into  the  road  again  a  couple  of  miles  back,  got 
a  horse,  rode  to  Civita  Castellana,  and  there  I 
was  lucky  enough  to  find  a  company  of  Zouaves. 
Well,  Sir,  we  came  here  flying,  mind,  I  tell  you, 
and  got  hold  of  a  chap  that  we  made  guide  us 
to  the  lake.  Then  we  opened  on  them ;  and 
here  we  are,  by  thunder !  But  where's  Min  ?" 

''Who?"  asked  Hawbury. 

"  Min,"  said  the  Baron,  in  the  most  natural 
tone  in  the  world. 

"  Oh !     Why,  isn't  she  here  ?" 

"No.  We've  hunted  every  where.  No  one's 
here  at  all."  And  the  Baron  went  on  to  tell 
about  their  search  and  its  results.  Hawbury 
was  chiefly  struck  by  the  news  of  Girasole. 

"  He  must  have  gone  mad  with  terror,"  said 
Hawbury,  as  he  told  the  Baron  about  his  adven 
ture  at  the  grave.  "If  that's  so,"  he  added,  "  I 
don't  see  how  the  ladies  could  be  harmed.  I 
dare  say  they've  run  off.  Why,  we  started 
to  run,  and  got  so  far  off  that  we  couldn't  find 
our  way  back,  even  after  the  trumpet  began  to 
sound.  You  must  keep  blowing  at  it,  you 
know.  Play  all  the  national  tunes  you  can — no 
end.  They'll  find  their  way  back  if  you  give 
them  time." 

And  now  they  all  went  back  to  the  house, 
and  the  Baron  in  his  anxiety  could  not  talk 
any  more,  but  began  his  former  occupation 
of  walking  up  and  down,  and  fuming  and 
fretting  and  chafing,  and,  I'm  again  afraid, 
swearing — when  all  of  a  sudden,  on  the  bank 
in  front  of  him,  on  the  very  top,  just  emerging 
from  the  thick  underbrush  which  had  concealed 
them  till  that  moment,  to  their  utter  amaze 
ment  and  indescribable  delight,  they  beheld 
Scone  Dacres  and  Mrs.  Willoughby.  Scone 
Dacres  appeared  to  Hawbury  to  be  in  a  totally 
different  frame  of  mind  from  that  in  which  he 
had  been  when  he  last  saw  him  ;  and  what  per 
plexed  him  most,  yea,  and  absolutely  confound 
ed  him,  was  the  sight  of  Scone  Dacres  with  his 
demon  wife,  whom  he  had  been  pursuing  for  the 
sake  of  vengeance,  and  whose  frenzy  had  been 


so  violent  that  he  himself  had  been  drawn  with 
him  on  purpose  to  try  and  restrain  him.  And 
now  what  was  the  injured  husband  doing  with 
his  demon  wife  ?  Doing!  why,  doing  the 
impassioned  lover  most  vigorously  ;  sustaining 
her  steps  most  tenderly ;  grasping  her  hand  ; 
pushing  aside  the  bushes ;  assisting  her  down 
the  slope ;  overwhelming  her,  in  short ;  hov 
ering  round  her,  apparently  unconscious  that 
there  was  in  all  the  wide  world  any  other  bo- 
ing  than  Mrs.  Willoughby.  And  as  Hawbury 
looked  upon  all  this  his  eyes  dilated  and  his 
lips  parted  involuntarily  in  utter  wonder;  and 
finally,  as  Dacres  reached  the  spot,  the  only 
greeting  which  he  could  give  his  friend  was, 

"By  Jove!" 

And  now,  while  Mrs.  Willoughby  and  Ethel 
were  embracing  with  tears  of  joy,  and  over 
whelming  one  another  with  questions,  the  Bar 
on  sought  information  from  Dacres. 

Dacres  then  informed  him  all  about  Tozer's 
advent  and  departure. 

"Tozer!"  cried  the  Baron,  in  intense  delight. 
"  Good  on  his  darned  old  head  !  Hurrah  for 
the  parson !  He  shall  marry  us  for  this — he, 
and  no  other,  by  thunder!" 

Upon  which  Mrs.  Willoughby  and  Ethel  ex 
changed  glances,  but  said  not  a  word.  Not 
they. 

But  in  about  five  minutes,  when  Mrs.  Wil 
loughby  had  Ethel  apart  a  little  by  herself,  she 
said, 

"  Oh,  Ethel  dear,  isn't  it  dreadful  ?" 

"What?"  asked  Ethel. 

"Why,  poor  Minnie." 

"Poor  Minnie?" 

"Yes.  Another  horrid  man.  And  he'll  bo 
claiming  her  too.  And,  oh  dear !  what  shall 
I  do?" 

"  Why,  you'll  have  to  let  her  decide  for  her 
self.  I  think  it  will  be — this  person." 

Mrs.  Willoughby  clasped  her  hands,  and 
looked  up  with  a  pretty  little  expression  of  hor 
ror. 

"And  do  you  know,  dear,"  added  Ethel, 
"I'm  beginning  to  think  that  it  wouldn't  be  so 
very  bad.  He's  Lord  Hawbury's  friend,  you 
know,  and  then  he's  very,  very  brave ;  and, 
above  all,  think  what  we  all  owe  him." 

Mrs.  Willoughby  gave  a  resigned  sigh. 

And  now  the  Baron  was  wilder  with  impa 
tience  than  ever.  He  had  questioned  Dacres. 
and  found  that  he  could  give  him  no  informa 
tion  whatever  as  to  Tozer's  route,  and  conse 
quently  had  no  idea  where  to  search.  But  he 
still  had  boundless  confidence  in  "  Yankee  Doo 
dle." 

"  That's  the  way,"  said  Dacres ;  "  we  heard 
it  ever  so  far,  and  it  was  the  first  thing  that 
told  us  it  was  safe  to  return.  We  didn't  dare 
to  venture  before." 

Meanwhile  Hawbury  had  got  Dacres  by  him 
self,  and  poured  a  torrent  of  questions  over  him. 
Dacres  told  him  in  general  terms  how  he  was 
captured.  Then  he  informed  him  how  Mrs. 
Willoughby  was  put  in  the  same  room,  and  his 


THE  AMERICAN  BAROX. 


discovery  that  it  was  Minnie  that  the  Italian 
wanted. 

"Well,  do  you  know,  old  chap,"  continued 
Dacres,  "I  couldn't  stand  it;  so  I  offered  to 
make  it  all  up  with  her." 

"  Oh,  I  see  you've  done  that,  old  hoy.  Con- 
grat— ' 

"Pooh!  wait  a  minute,"  said  Dacres,  inter 
rupting  him.  "  Well,  you  know,  she  wasn't  my 
wife  at  all." 

At  this  Hawbury  stood  utterly  aghast. 

"What's  that?" 

"She  wasn't  my  wife  at  all.  She  looks 
confoundedly  like  what  my  wife  was  at  her 
best,  but  she's  another  person.  It's  a  most 
extraordinary  likeness;  and  yet  she's  isn't  any 
relation,  hut  a  great  deal  prettier  woman.  What 
made  me  so  sure,  you  know,  was  the  infernally 
odd  coincidence  of  the  name ;  and  then  I  only 
saw  her  off  and  on,  you  know,  and  I  never 
heard*  her  voice.  Then,  you  know,  I  was 
mad  with  jealousy ;  and  so  I  made  myself  worse 
nnd  worse,  till  I  was  ripe  for  murder,  arson, 
assasination,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  you 
know." 

To  all  this  Hawbury  listened  in  amazement, 
and  could  not  utter  a  word,  until  at  last,  as 
Dacres  paused,  he  said, 

"By  Jove!" 

"Well,  old  man,  I  was  the  most  infernal  ass 
that  ever  lived.  And  how  I  must  have  bored 
you  !" 

"By  Jove!"  exclaimed  Hawbury  again. 
"But  drive  on,  old  boy." 

"Well,  you  know,  the  row  occurred  just 
then,  and  away  went  the  scoundrels  to  the 
fight,  and  in  came  that  parson  fellow,  and  away 
we  went.  I  took  Mrs.  Willoughby  to  a  safe 
place,  where  I  kept  her  till  I  heard  the  trum 
pet,  you  know.  And  I've  got  another  thing  to 
tell  you.  It's  deuced  odd,  but  she  knew  all 
about  me." 

"The  deuce  she  did!" 

"  Yes,  the  whole  story.  Lived  somewhere  in 
the  county.  But  I  don't  remember  the  Fays. 
At  any  rate,  she  lived  there  ;  and  do  you  know, 
old  fellow,  the  county  people  used  to  think  I 
beat  my  wife !" 

"By  Jove!" 

"Yes;  and  afterward  they  raised  a  report 
that  my  cruelty  had  driven  her  mad.  But  I 
had  a  few  friends  that  stood  up  for  me ;  and 
among  others  these  Fays,  you  know,  had  heard 
the  truth  of  it,  and,  as  it  happened,  Kitty — " 

"  Kitty  ?" 

"Well,  Mrs.  Willoughby,  I  mean — her  name's 
Kitty — has  always  known  the  truth  about  it ; 
and  when  she  saw  me  at  Naples  she  felt  inter 
ested  in  me." 

"Oho!"  and  Hawbury  opened  his  eyes. 

"Well,  she  knew  all  about  it;  and,  among 
other  things,  she  gave  me  one  piece  of  intelli 
gence  that  has  eased  my  mind." 

"  Ah  !  what's  that  ?" 

"  Why,  my  wife  is  dead." 

"  Oh,  then  there's  no  doubt  about  it?" 


"  Not  a  bit.  She  died  eight  years  ago,  and 
in  -an  insane  asylum." 

"By  Jove!  Then  she  was  mad  all  th.- 
time." 

"  Yes ;  that  accounts  for  it,  and  turns  all  my 
curves  into  pity." 

Dacres  was  silent  now  for  a  few  moments. 
At  length  he  looked  at  Hawbury  with  a  very 
singular  expression. 

"Hawbury,  old  boy." 

"Well,  Sconey?" 

"I  think  we'll  keep  it  up." 

"Who?" 

"  Why,  Kitty  and  I— that  is,  Mrs.  Willough 
by  and  I — her  name's  Kitty,  you  know." 

"  Keep  what  up  ?" 

"Why,  the — the — the  fond  illusion,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing.  You  see  I've  got  into  such 
an  infernal  habit  of  regarding  her  as  my  wife 
that  I  can't  look  on  her  in  any  other  light.  I 
claimed  her,  you  know,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing,  and  she  thought  I  was  delirious,  and  felt 
sorry,  and  humored  me,  and  gave  me  a  very 
favorable  answer." 

"Humored  you?" 

"  Yes ;  that's  what  she  says  now,  you  know. 
But  I'm  holding  her  to  it,  and  I've  every  rea 
son  to  believe,  yon  know — in  fact,  I  may  as 
well  say  that  it  is  an  understood  thing,  you 
know,  that  she'll  let  it  go,  you  know,  and  at 
some  early  da}-,  you  know,  we'll  have  it  all 
formally  settled,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
you  know." 

Ilawbury  wrung  his  friend's  hand. 

"  See  here,  old  boy  ;  you  see  Ethel  there  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"Who  do  you  think  she  is?" 

"Who?" 

"Ethel  Orne!" 

"Ethel  Ome!"  cried  Dacres,  as  the  whole 
truth  flashed  on  his  mind.  "What  a  devil  of  a 
jumble  every  thing  has  been  getting  into !  By 
Heaven,  dear  boy,  I  congratulate  you  from  the 
bottom  of  my  soul !" 

And  he  wrung  Hawbury's  hand  as  though  all 
his  soul  was  in  that  grasp. 

But  all  this  could  not  satisfy  the  impatience 
of  the  Baron.  This  was  all  very  well  in  its 
way,  merely  as  an  episode ;  but  he  was  wait 
ing  for  the  chief  incident  of  the  piece,  and  the 
chief  incident  was  delaying  very  unaccounta 
bly. 

So  he  strode  up  and  down,  and  he  fretted 
and  he  fumed  and  he  chafed,  and  the  trumpeter 
kept  blowing  awa\'. 

Until  at  last — 

Just  before  his  eyes — 

Up  there  on  the  top  of  the  bank,  not  far 
from  where  Dacres  and  Mrs.  Willoughby  had 
made  their  appearance,  the  Baron  caught  sight 
of  a  tall,  lank,  slim  figure,  clothed  in  rusty 
black,  whose  thin  and  leathery  face,  rising 
above  a  white  neck-tie,  peered  solemnly  yet 
interrogatively  through  the  bushes ;  while  just 
behind  him  the  Baron  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
flutter  of  a  woman's  dress. 


130 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


"»1B  liAVi:  A  LOU1>  CKY  OF  JOY,  AND  THEN  Bl'KANU  UP  THE  BANK." 


"You  shall  marrv 
us,  parson— and  this 
very  day,  by  thun 
der!" 

These  words  came 
to  Mrs.  Wuloiighby's 
ears  in  the  midst  of 
her  first  joy  at  meet 
ing  her  sister,  and 
shocked  her  inex 
pressibly. 

"What's  that, 
Minnie  darling  ?"  she 
asked,  anxiously. 
"  What  is  it  ?  Did 
you  hear  what  that 
dreadful  —  what  the 
— the  Baron  said  ?" 

Minnie  looked 
sweetly  conscious, 
but  said  nothing. 

"What  does  he 
mean?"  asked  her 
sister  again. 

"  I  suppose  he 
means  what  he  says," 
replied  Minnie,  with 
a  timid  air,  stealing 
a  shy  look  at  the 
Baron. 

"Oh  dear!"  said 
Mrs.  Willoughby ; 
"  there's  another 
dreadful  trouble,  I 
know.  It's  very, 
very  hard — " 

"Well,  I'm  sure," 
said  Minnie,  "  I  can't 
help  it.  They  all  do 


He  gave  a  loud  cry  of  joy,  and  then  sprang 

up  the  bank. 

****** 

But  over  that  meeting  I  think  we  had  better 
draw  a  veil. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

ASTONISHING   WAT   OF   CONCLUDING   AN 
ADVENTURE. 

THE  meeting  between  the  Baron  and  Minnie 
gave  a  new  shock  to  poor  Mrs.  Willoughby,  who 
looked  with  a  helpless  expression,  and  walked 
away  for  a  little  distance.  Dacres  and  Haw- 
bury  were  still  eagerly  conversing  and  question 
ing  one  another  about  their  adventures.  Tozer 
also  had  descended  and  joined  himself  to  the 
priest ;  and  each  of  these  groups  had  leisure 
for  a  prolonged  conversation  before  they  were 
interrupted.  At  length  Minnie  made  her  ap 
pearance,  and  flung  herself  into  her  sister's  arms, 
while  at  the  same  time  the  Baron  grasped  To 
zer  by  both  hands,  and  called  out,  in  a  voice  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  by  all, 


so.  That  clergyman 
came  and  saved  me, 

and  he  wasn't  a  Roman  Catholic  clergyman  at 
all,  and  he  proposed — " 

"Proposed!"  cried  Mrs.  Willoughby,  aghast. 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Minnie,  solemnly  ;  "and  I 
had  hard  work  preventing  him.  But,  really,  it 
was  too  absurd,  and  I  would  not  let  him  be  too 
explicit.  But  1  didn't  hurt  his  feelings.  Well, 
you  know,  then  all  of  a  sudden,  as  we  were  sit 
ting  there,  the  bugle  sounded,  and  we  came 
back.  Well,  then,  Rufus  K.  Gunn  came — and 
you  know  how  very  violent  he  is  in  his  way — 
and  he  said  he  saved  my  life  again,  and  so  he 
proposed." 

"  He  proposed  !  Why,  he  had  proposed 
before. " 

"  Oh  yes ;  but  that  was  for  an  engagement, 
and  this  was  for  our  marriage." 

"  Marriage !" 

"  Oh  yes ;  and,  you  see,  he  had  actually  saved 
my  life  twice,  and  he  was  very  urgent,  and  he 
is  so  awfully  affectionate,  and  so — " 

"Well,  what?"  cried  Mrs.  Willoughby,  see 
ing  Minnie  hesitate. 

"Why,  he—" 

"Well?" 


THE  AMERICAN  BARON. 


131 


"I  mean,  I — " 

"You  what?  Really,  Minnie  dearest,  you 
might  tell  me,  and  not  keep  me  in  such  dread 
ful  suspense." 

"Why,  what  could  I  say?" 

"  But  what  did  you  say  ?" 

"Why,  I  think  I — said — yes,"  said  Minnie 

casting  down  her  eyes  with  indescribable  sweet 

ness,  shyness,  meekness,  and  resignation. 

Mrs.  Willoughby  actually  shuddered. 

"Now,  Kitty,"  exclaimed   Minnie,  who  a 

once  noticed  it,  "you   needn't  be   so  horrid 

I'm  sure  you  can't  say  any  thing  against  hiir 

now.    You  needn't  look  so.     You  always  hate 

him.     You  never  would  treat  him  kindly." 

"But  this — this  marriage.  It's  too  shock 
ing." 

"  Well,  he  saved  my  life." 
"And  to-day!      How  utterly  preposterous! 
It's  shameful!" 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  can't  help  it." 
"It's  too  horrid  !"  continued  Mrs.  Willough 
by,  in  an  excited  tone.      "It  will  break  poor 
papa's  heart.     And  it  will  break  poor  darling 
aunty's  heart.     And  it  will  break  my  heart." 

"  Now,  Kitty  dearest,  this  is  too  silly  in  you. 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  him,  I  would  now  be  mar 
ried  to  that  wretched  Count,  who  hadn't  suffi 
cient  affection  for  me  to  get  me  a  chair  to  sit 
on,  and  who  was  very,  very  rude  to  you.  You 
didn't  care,  though,  whether  I  was  married  to 
him  or  not ;  and  now  when  I  am  saved  from  him 
you  have  nothing  but  very  unpleasant  things  to 
say  about  Rufus  K.  Gunn." 

"  Oh  dear,  what  would  I  give  if  you  were 
only  safe  home!" 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't  see  what  7  can  do. 
People  are  always  saving  my  lite.  And  there 
is  Captain  Kirby  hunting  all  over  Italy  for  me. 
And  I  know  I  will  be  saved  by  somebody — if — 
if — I — I — if — I — if — you  know  —  that  is — I'm 
sure — " 

"Nonsense!"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby,  as  Min 
nie  broke  down  in  confusion.  "  It  is  too  ab 
surd.  I  won't  talk  about  it.  You  are  a  silly 
child.  Oh,  how  I  do  wish  you  were  home !" 

At  this  juncture  the  conversation  was  inter 
rupted  by  the  Baron. 

"  It  is  not  my  fashion,  ma'am, "said  he,  grave 
ly,  "to  remind  another  of  any  obligation  under 
which  he  may  be  to  me ;  but  my  claims  on  Min 
nie  have  been  so  opposed  by  you  and  the  rest 
of  her  friends  that  I  have  to  ask  you  to  think 
of  them.  Your  father  knows  what  my  first 
claims  are.  You  yourself,  ma'am,  know  per 
fectly  well  what  the  last  claims  are  which  I 
have  won  to-day." 

The  Baron  spoke  calmly,  firmly,  and  with  dig 
nity.  Mrs.  Willoughby  answered  not  a  word. 
"If  you  think  on  your  position  last  night, 
and  Minnie's,  ma'am,"  resumed  the  Baron, 
"  you'll  acknowledge,  I  expect,  that  it  was  pret 
ty  hard  lines.  What  would  you  have  given  a 
few  hours  ago  for  a  sight  of  my  uniform  in  that 
old  house  yonder?  If  I  had  come  then  to  save 
Minnie  from  the  clutches  of  that  /talian, 


wouldn't  you  have  given  her  to  me  with  all 
your  heart,  and  your  prayers  too  ?  You  would, 
by  thunder!  Think,  ma'am,  on  your  sufferings 
last  night,  and  then  answer  me." 

Mrs.  Willoughby  involuntarily  thought  of 
that  night  of  horror,  and  shuddered,  and  said 
nothing. 

"  Now,  ma'am,  just  listen  to  this.  I  find  on 
coming  here  that  this  /talian  had  a  priest  here 
all  ready  to  marry  him  and  Minnie.  If  I'd 
been  delayed  or  defeated,  Minnie  would  have 
been  that  rascal's  wife  by  this  time.  The  priest 
was  here.  They  would  have  been  married  as 
sure  as  you're  born.  You,  ma'am,  would  have 
had  to  see  this  poor,  trembling,  broken-hearted, 
despairing  girl  torn  from  your  arms,  and  bound 
by  the  marriage  tie  to  a  ruffian  and  a  scoundrel 
whom  she  loathed.  And  now,  ma'am,  I  save 
her  from  this.  I  have  my  priest  too,  ma'am. 
He  ain't  a  Roman  Catholic,  it  is  true — he's  an 
orthodox  parson — but,  at  the  same  time,  I  ain't 
particular.  Now  I  propose  to  avail  myself  this 
day  of  his  invaluable  services  at  the  earliest 
hour  possible ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  if  Min 
prefers  it,  I  don't  object  to  the  priest,  for  I  have 
a  kind  of  Roman  Catholic  leaning  myself. 

"Now  you  may  ask,  ma'am,"  continued  the 
Baron,  as  Mrs.  Willoughby  continued  silent — 
"you  may  ask  why  I'm  in  such  a  thundering 
lurry.  My  answer  is,  because  you  fit  me  off 
>o.  You  tried  to  keep  me  from  Min.  You 
ocked  me  out  of  your  house.  You  threatened 
to  hand  me  over  to  the  po-lice  (and  I'd  like  to 
see  one  of  them  try  it  on  with  me).  You  said 
was  mad  or  drunk  ;  and  finally  you  tried  to 
run  away.  Then  you  rejected  my  advice,  and 
)lunged  head-foremost  into  this  fix.  Now,  in 
•iew  of  all  this,  my  position  is  this — that  I  can't 
rust  you.  I've  got  Min  now,  and  I  mean  to 
ceep  her.  If  you  got  hold  of  her  again,  I  feel 
t  would  be  the  last  of  her.  Consequently  I 
ain't  going  to  let  her  go.  Not  me.  Not  by  a 
ong  chalk. 

"  Finally,  ma'am,  if  you'll  allow  me,  I'll  touch 
upon  another  point.    I've  thought  over  your  ob- 
ections  to  me.    It  ain't  my  rank — I'm  a  noble ; 
t  ain't  money — I'm  worth  a  hundred  thousand 
ollars ;   it  ain't  my  name — for  I  call  myself 
Atramonte.    It  must  be  something  in  me.   I've 
ome  to  the  conclusion  that  it's  my  general 
tyle — my  manners  and  customs.     Very  well, 
erhaps  they  don't  come  up  to  your  standard, 
hey  mayn't  square  with  your  ideas.     Yet,  let 
ne  inform  you,  ma'am,  there  are  other  stand- 
rds  of  action  and  manner  and  speech  than 
dose  to  which  you  are  accustomed,  and  mine 
s  one  of  them.     Minnie  doesn't  object  to  that, 
he  knows  my  heart  is  all  right,  and  is  willing 
o  trust  herself  to  me.      Consequently  I  take 
er,  and  I  mean  to  make  her  mine  this  day." 
As  the  Baron  paused  Mrs.  Willoughby  began, 
rst  of  all,  to  express  her  gratitude,  and  then  to 
eg  him  to  postpone  the  marriage.     She  de- 
tared  that  it  was  an  unheard-of  thing,  that 
was  shameful,  that  it  was  shocking,  that  it 
as  dreadful.     She  grew  very  much  excited; 


132 


THE  AMERICAN  BAROX. 


she  protested,  she  entreated.  Finally  she  burst 
into  tears,  and  appealed  to  Lord  Hawbury  in 
the  most  moving  terms.  Hawbury  listened 
very  gravely,  with  his  eyes  wandering  over  to 
where  Ethel  was ;  and  Ethel  caught  the  ex 
pression  of  his  face,  and  looked  quite  confused. 

"Oh,  think,  only  think," said  Mrs.  Willough 
by,  after  an  eloquent  and  pathetic  appeal — 
"think  how  ib.3  poor  child  will  he  talked 
about ! " 

"Well,  really  —  ah  —  'pon  my  life,"  said 
Hawbury,  with  his  eyes  still  wandering  over 
toward  Ethel,  "I'm  sure  I  don't — ah — share 
your  views  altogether,  Mrs.  Willoughby ;  for — 
ah — there  are  times,  you  know,  when  a  fellow 
finds  it  very  uncommonly  desirable — runaway 
matches,  you  know,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
And,  by  Jove !  to  tell  the  truth,  I  really  admire 
the  idea,  by  Jove !  And  really  —  ah  —  I'm 
sure — I  wish  most  confoundedly  it  was  the 
universal  fashion,  by  Jove ! " 

"But  she'll  be  so  talked  about.  She'll  make 
herself  so  shockingly  consjricuous." 

"Conspicuous?  By  Jove!  "said  Hawbury, 
who  seemed  struck  by  the  idea.  At  that  mo 
ment  Minnie  began  talking  to  her  sister,  and 
Hawbury  went  off  to  Ethel,  to  whom  he  began 
talking  in  the  most  earnest  manner.  The  two 
wandered  off  for  some  distance,  and  did  not  re 
turn  for  a  full  half  hour.  When  they  did  re 
turn  Ethel  looked  somewhat  embarrassed,  and 
Hawbury  was  radiant.  With  this  radiance  on 
his  face  he  went  up  to  Mrs.  Willoughby,  leav 
ing  Ethel  in  the  background. 

"Oh,  by-the-way,"  said  he,  "you  were  re 
marking  that  your  sister  would  be  too  con 
spicuous  by  such  a  hasty  marriage." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby,  anxiously. 

"Well,  I  thought  I  would  tell  you  that  she 
needn't  be  so  very  conspicuous ;  for,  in  fact — 
that  is,  you  know,  Ethel  and  I — she  told  you, 
I  suppose,  about  our  mistake  ?" 

"Oh  yes." 

"And  I  think  I've  persuaded  her  to  save 
Minnie  from  being  too  conspicuous." 

Mrs.  Willoughby  gave  Hawbury  a  look  of 
astonishment  and  reproach. 

"  You !"  she  cried  ;  "and  Ethel !" 

"Why,  I'm  sure,  we're  the  very  ones  you 
might  expect  it  from.  Think  how  infernally 
we've  been  humbugged  by  fate." 

"Fate!"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby.  "It  was 
all  your  own  fault.  She  was  chosen  for  you." 

"  Chosen  for  me  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  By  your  mother." 

"My  mother?" 

"Yes." 

"  She  said  one  of  Biggs's  nieces." 

"Ethel  is  that  niece." 

" The  devil !"  cried  Hawbury.  "  I  beg  par 
don.  By  Jove!" 

Hawbury,  overwhelmed  by  this,  went  back  to 
Ethel,  and  they  wandered  off  once  more.  The 
Baron  had  already  wandered  off  with  Minnie 


in  another  direction.     Tozer  and  the  priest  had 
gone  to  survey  the  house. 

Seeing  Mrs.  Willoughby  thus  left  alone,  Da- 
cres  drifted  up  to  her.  He  came  up  silently. 

"  Kitty,"  said  he,  in  a  low  voice,  "  you  seem 
sad." 

By  which  familiar  address  it  will  be  seen 
that  Dacres  had  made  some  progress  toward 
intimacy  with  her. 

Mrs.  Willoughby  did  not  seem  at  all  offend 
ed  at  this,  but  looked  up  with  one  of  her  frank 
est  smiles,  and  the  clouds  of  perplexity  passed 
away.     She  was  an  exceedingly  pretty  woman, 
and  she  was  certainly  not  over  twenty-four. 
"I'm  so  worried,"  she  said,  plaintively. 
"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Dacres,  in  a 
tone  of  the  deepest  and  tenderest  sympathy. 

"  Why,  these  horrid  men ;  and,  what's  worse, 
Lord  Hawbury  is  actually  encouraging  Mr. — 
the  —  the  Baron ;  and  I'm  so  worried.  Oh 
dear !" 

"But  why  should  you  be  worried?" 
"It's  so  horrid.     It's  shocking.     It's  not  to 
be  thought  of." 

"But  why  not?"  asked  Dacres. 
"Why,  it's — it's  so  horrid,"  said  Mrs.  Wil 
loughby. 

Dacres  stood  looking  at  her  for  a  long  time. 
"  Kitty,"  said  he  at  last. 
Mrs.  Willoughby  looked  up. 
Dacres  looked  all  around.      He   then  took 
her  hand. 

"Isn't  it  too  bad,"  he  said,  "Vj  let  Min 
nie — " 

"  What  ?" 

"  To  let  her  go  through  this  ordeal  alone  ?" 
"  Alone!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Willoughby,  look 
ing  in  wonder  at  him. 
"Yes." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 
"  Couldn't  we  accompany  her  ?" 
Mrs.  Willoughby  snatched  away  her  hand. 
"Are  you  mad?"  she  cried.     "I  do  believe 
the  whole  world's  mad  to-day." 

"  Mad !"  cried  Dacres.    "  Yes,  I'm  mad — in 
sane — raving!     Won't  you  be  merciful  again? 
Won't  you,  Kitty?     Won't  you   'humor'  my 
ravings?     Oh,  do.     Oh,  Kitty !  dear  Kitty— !" 
"  It's  positive  insanity !" 
"Oh,  Kitty!" 
"  You're  raving !" 

"Won't  you  'humor'  me — just  this  once! 
only  this  once." 

"Hush!  there  they  come,"  said  Mrs.  Wil 
loughby,  suddenly  snatching  away  her  baud, 
which  Dacres  had  somehow  got  hold  of  again, 
and  moving  a  little  further  away  from  him. 

It  was  the  Baron  and  Minnie  who  were  coin 
ing  back  again,  while  Hawbury  and  Ethel  were 
seen  a  little  further  away. 

There  they  all  stood — there,  on  the  spot  where 
they  had  found  the  crisis  of  their  fortunes  ;  and 
as  they  stood  there  the  two  clergymen,  Catholic 
and  Protestant,  slowly  came  out  of  the  house. 


THE  END. 


"THE  LIBRARY  OF  SELECT  NOVELS"  has  become  an  institution,  a  reliable  and  unfailing  rec 
reative  resource  essential  to  the  comfort  of  countless  readers.  The  most  available  entertainment 
of  modern  times  is  fiction :  from  the  cares  of  busy  life,  from  the  monotonous  routine  of  a  special 
vocation,  in  the  intervals  of  business  and  in  hours  of  depression,  a  good  story,  with  faithful  de 
scriptions  of  nature,  with  true  pictures  of  life,  with  authentic  characterization,  lifts  the  mind  out 
of  the  domain  of  care,  refreshes  the  feelings,  and  enlists  the  imagination.  The  Harpers'  "Libra 
ry  of  Select  Novels  "  is  rapidly  approaching  its  four  hundredth  number,  and  it  is  safe  to  say  that 
no  series  of  books  exists  which  combines  attractiveness  and  economy,  local  pictures  and  beguiling 
narrative,  to  such  an  extent  and  in  so  convenient  a  shape.  In  railway-cars  and  steamships,  in 
boudoirs  and  studios,  libraries  and  chimney  corners,  on  verandas  and  in  private  sanctums,  the  fa 
miliar  brown  covers  are  to  be  seen.  These  books  are  enjoyed  by  all  classes ;  they  appear  of  an 
average  merit,  and  with  a  constant  succession  that  is  marvelous ;  and  in  subject  and  style  offer  a 
remarkable  variety. — Boston  Transcript. 


PRICE 

1.  Pelham.     By  Bulwer $075 

2.  The  Disowned.     By  Bulwer 75 

3.  Deveretix.     By  Bulwer 5:) 

4.  Paul  Clifford.     By  Bulwer 50 

5.  Eugene  Aram.     By  Bulwer 50 

6.  The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii.     By  Bulwer 50 

7.  The  Czarina.     By  Mrs.  Hofland 50 

8.  llienzi.     By  Bulwer 75 

9.  Self- Devotion.     By  Miss  Campbell 50 

10.  The  Nabob  at  Home 50 

11.  Ernest  Maltravers.     By  Bulwer 50 

I-.'.  Alice ;  or,  The  Mysteries.     By  Bulwer 50 

I  '3.  The  lAst  of  the  Barons.     By  Bulwer 1  00 

14.  Forest  Days.     By  James 50 

15.  Adam  Brown,  the  Merchant.     By  H.  Smith  ...  50 

10.  Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine.     By  Bulwer 25 

IT.  The  Home.     By  Miss  Bremer 50 

IS.  The  Lost  Ship.     By  Captain  Neale 75 

19.  The  False  Heir.     By  James 50 

2-i i.  The  Neighbors.     By  Miss  Bremer 50 

21.  Nina.     By  Miss  Bremer 50 

22.  The  President's  Daughters.     By  Miss  Bremer. .  25 

23.  The  Banker's  Wife.     By  MM.  <Jore 50 

24.  The  Birthright.     By  Mrs.  Gore 25 

25.  New  Sketches  of  Every-day  Life.  By  Miss  Bremer  50 

26.  Arabella  Stuart.     By  James 50 

27.  The  Grumbler.     By  Miss  Pickering 50 

2-3.  The  Unloved  One.     By  Mrs.  lloflaud 60 

29.  Jack  of  the  Mill.     By  William  Howitt 25 

30.  The  Heretic.     By  Lajetchnikoff 50 

31.  The  Jew.     By  Spindler. 75 

32.  Arthur.     By  Sue 75 

33.  Chatsworth.     By  Ward 50 

34.  The  Prairie  Bird.     By  C.  A.  Murray 1  00 

i!5.  Amy  Herbert.     By  Miss  Sewell 60 

3(5.  Ro.se  d'Albret.     By  James 50 

37.  The  Triumphs  of  Time.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 75 

38.  The  II Family.     By  Miss  Bremer 50 

3!».  The  Grandfather.     By  Miss  Pickering 50 

40.  Arrah  Neil.     By  James 50 

41.  TheJilt 50 

42.  Tales  from  the  German 50 

43.  Arthur  Arundel.    By  H.  Smith 50 

44.  Agincourt.     By  James 50 

4f>.  The  Regent's  Daughter 50 

46.  The  Maid  of  Honor 50 

47.  Sana.     By  De  Beauvoir 50 

48.  Look  to  the  End.     By  Mrs.  Ellis 50 

49.  The  Improvisatore.     By  Andersen 60 

50.  The  Gambler's  Wife.    'By  Mrs.  Grey 50 

51.  Veronica.     By  Zschokke 50 

52.  Zoe.     By  Miss  Jewsbury 50 

53.  Wyoming 60 

54.  De  Rohan.     By  Sue 60 

55.  Self.     By  the  Author  of  "  Cecil" 75 

56.  The  Smuggler.     By  James 75 

57.  The  Breach  of  Promise 60 

58.  Parsonage  of  Mora.     By  Miss  Bremer 25 

69.  A  Chance  Medley.     By  T.  C.  Grattan 50 

60.  The  White  Slave 1  00 

61.  The  Bosom  Friend.     By  Mrs.  Grey 50 

G2.   Amaury.     By  Dumas 60 

63.  The  Author's  Daughter.     By  Mary  Howitt 25 

04.  Only  a  Fiddler,  &e.     By  Andersen 50 

06.  The  Whiteboy.     By  Mrs.  Hall 50 


PRJC« 

66.  The  Foster-Brother.    Edited  by  Leigh  Hunt.  .$0  50 

67.  Love  and  Mesmerism.     By  H.  Smith 75 

68.  Ascanio.     By  Dumas 75 

69.  Lady  of  Milan.     Edited  by  Mrs.  Thomson 76 

70.  The  Citizen  of  Prague 1  oo 

71.  The  Royal  Favorite.     By  Mrs.  Gore 60 

72.  The  Queen  of  Denmark.    By  Mrs.  Gore 50 

73.  The  Elves,  &c.     By  Tieck 60 

74.  75.  The  Stepmother.     By  James 1  25 

70.  Jessie' 8  Flirtations 50 

77.  Chevalier  d'Harmental.    By  Dumas 50 

78.  Peers  and  Parvenus.     By  Mrs.  Gore 50 

7'.».  Th-3  Commander  of  Malta.     By  Sue 50 

80.  The  Female  Minister 50 

SI.  Emilia  Wyndham.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 75 

82.  The  Bush-Ranger.     By  Charles  Rowcroft 50 

83.  The  Chronicles  of  Clovernook 25 

S4.  Genevieve.     By  Lamartine 25 

85.  Livonian  Tales 25 

86.  Lettice  Arnold.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 25 

87.  Father  Darcy.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 75 

88.  I.eontine.     By  Mrs  Maberly 50 

89.  Heidelberg.     By  James 50 

90.  Lucretia.     By  Bulwer 75 

91.  Beauchamp.     By  James 75 

92.  94.  Fortescue.     By  Knowles 1  00 

93.  Daniel  Dennison,  &c.     By  Mrs.  Hofland 50 

H5.  Cinq-Mars.     ByDeVigny 50 

96.  Woman's  Trials.     By  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall 75 

97.  The  Castle  of  Ehrenstein.     By  James 50 

'.IS.  Marriage.     By  Miss  S.  Ferrier 60 

99.  Roland  Cashel.     By  Lever 1  25 

100.  The  Martins  of  Cro'  Martin.     By  Lever 1  25 

101.  Russell.     By  James 50 

102.  A  Simple  Story.     By  Mrs.  Inchbald 60 

103.  Norman's  Bridge.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

1"4.  Alamance 60 

105.  Margaret  Graham.     By  James 25 

106.  The  Wayside  Cross.     By  E.  H.  Milman 25 

107.  The  Convict     By  Jamea 50 

108.  Midsummer  Eve.     By  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall 50 

109.  Jane  Eyre.     By  Currer  Bell 75 

110.  The  Ijist  of  the  Fairies.    By  James 26 

111.  Sir  Theodore  Bronghton.     By  James 60 

112.  Self-Control.     By  Mary  Brunton 75 

113.  114.  Harold.     By  Bulwer 1  00 

115.  Brothers  and  Sisters.     By  Miss  Bremer 60 

116.  Gowrie.     By  James 50 

117.  A  Whim  and  its  Consequences.     By  James. . .  50 

118.  Three  Sisters  and  Three  Fortunes.    By  G.  H. 

I-ewes 76 

119.  The  Discipline  of  Life 50 

120.  Thirty  Years  Since.     By  James 75 

121.  Mary  Barton.     By  Mrs.  Caskell 50 

12-2.  The  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond.    By  Thackeray  2.r> 

123.  The  Forgery.    By  James 60 

124.  The  Midnight  Sun.     I'y  Miss  Bremer 25 

125.  126.  The  Caxtons.     By  Bulwer 75 

127.  Mordaunt  Hall.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 60 

128.  My  Uncle  the  Curate 66 

129.  The  Woodman.     By  James 75 

130.  The  Green  Hand.     A  "  Short  Yarn" 76 

131.  Sidonia  the  Sorceress.     By  Meinhold 100 

132.  Shirley.     By  Currer  Bell 100 

133.  The  Ogilvke.     By  .Visa  Mulock 50 


Harper's  Library  of  Select  Novels. 


184.  Constance  Lyndsay.     By  G.  C.  H $0  50 

135.  Sir  Kdward  CJraham.     By  Miss  Sinclair 1  00 

136.  Hands  not  Hearts.     By  Miss  Wilkinson 50 

137.  The  Wilmingtons.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

138.  Ned  Allen,     Hy  D.  Hannay 50 

139.  Night  and  Morning.     By  Bulwer 75 

140.  The  Maid  of  Orleans 75 

141.  Antonina.     By  Wilkie  Collins 50 

142.  Zanoni.     By  Bulwer 50 

143.  Keginald  Hastings.     By  Warburton 50 

144.  Pride  and  Irresolution 60 

145.  The  Old  Oak  Chest.     By  James 50 

146.  Julia  Howard.     By  Mrs.  Martin  Bell 50 

147.  Adelaide  Lindsay.     Kdi ted  by  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

148.  Petticoat  Government.'   By  Mrs.  Trollope 50 

149.  The  Luttrells.     By  F.  Williams 50 

150.  Singleton  Fontenoy,  R.  N.     By  Hannay 50 

151.  Olive.     By  Miss  Mulock 60 

152.  Henry  Smeaton.     By  James 60 

153.  Time,  the  Avenger.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

154.  The  Commissioner.     By  James 1  00 

155.  The  Wife's  Sister.     By  Mrs.  Hubback 50 

156.  The  Gold  Worshipers 50 

157.  The  Daughter  of  Night     By  Fullom 25 

158.  Stuart  of  Dunleath.     By  Hon.  Caroline  Norton  50 

159.  Arthur  Conway.     By  Captain  E.  H.  Milman. .  50 

160.  The  Fate.     By  James 50 

161.  The  Lady  and  the  Priest.     By  Mrs.  Maberly. .  50 

162.  Aims  and  Obstacles.     By  James 50 

163.  The  Tutor's  Ward 60 

164.  Florence  Sackville.     By  Mrs.  Burbury 75 

165.  Ravenscliffe.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 60 

166.  Maurice  Tiernay.     By  Lever 100 

167.  The  Head  of  the  Family.     By  Miss  Mulock...  75 

168.  Darien.     By  Warburton 60 

169.  Falkenburg 75 

170.  The  Daltons.     By  Lever 1  50 

171.  Ivar;  or,  The  Skjuts-Boy.    By  Miss  Carlen  . .  60 

172.  Pequinillo.     By  James 60 

173.  Anna  Hammer.     By  Temme 60 

174.  A  Life  of  Vicissitudes.     By  James 50 

176.  Henry  Esmond.     By  Thackeray 75 

176,177.  My  Novel.    By  Bulwer 1  60 

178.  Katie  Stewart.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 25 

179.  Castle  Avon.    By  Mrs.  Marsh 60 

180.  Agnes  Sorel.     By  James 50 

181.  Agatha's  Husband.     By  Miss  Mulock 60 

182.  Villette.     By  Currer  Bell 75 

183.  Lover's  Stratagem.    By  Miss  Carlen 60 

184.  Clouded  Happiness.     By  Countess  D'Orsay...  50 

186.  Charles  Auchester.    A  Memorial 76 

1S6.  Lady  Lee's  Widowhood 50 

187.  The  Dodd  Family  Abroad.     By  Lever 1  25 

188.  Sir  Jasper  Carew.     By  Lever 76 

189.  Quiet  Heart.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 26 

190.  Aubrey.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 76 

191.  Ticonderoga.     By  James 50 

192.  Hard  Times.    By  Dickens 50 

193.  The  Young  Husband.     By  Mrs.  Grey 50 

194.  The  Mother's  Recompense.    By  Grace  Aguilar.  75 

195.  Avillion,  and  other  Tales.    By  Miss  Mulock. . .  1  26 

196.  North  and  South.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell 50 

197.  Country  Neighborhood.     By  Miss  Dupuy 50 

198.  Constance  Herbert.     By  Miss  Jewsbury 60 

199.  The  Heiress  of  Haughton.     By  Mrs.  Marsh. . .  60 

200.  The  Old  Dominion.     By  James 60 

201.  John  Halifax.     By  Miss  Mulock 78 

202.  Evelyn  Marston.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 60 

803.  Fortunes  of  Glencore.     By  Lever 60 

204.  Leonora  d'Orco.    By  James 50 

205.  Nothing  New.     By  Miss  Mulock 60 

S06.  The  Rose  of  Ashurst.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 60 

207.  The  Athelings.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 78 

208.  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life     By  George  Eliot 75 

209.  My  Lady  Ludlow.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell 25 

210.  211.  Gerald  Fitzgerald.    By  Lever 50 

218.  A  Life  for  a  Life.     By  Miss  Mulook 60 

213.  Sword  and  Gown.     By  Geo.  Lawrence 25 

214.  Misrepresentation.     By  Anna  H.  Drury 1  00 

215.  The  Mill  on  the  Floss.     By  George  Eliot 75 

216.  One  of  Them.    By  Lever 78 

217.  A  Day's  Ride.     By  Lever 50 

218.  Notice  to  Quit.     By  Wills 60 

219.  A  Strange  Story.     By  Bulwer 100 

220.  The  Struggles  of  Brown,  Jones,  and  Robinson. 

By  Anthony  Trollope 50 

221.  Abel  Drake's  Wife.     By  John  Saunders 75 

222.  Olive  Blake's  Good  Work.     By  Jeaffreson. . . .  75 

223.  The  Professor's  Lady 25 

224.  Mistress  and  Maid.     By  Miss  Mulock 50 

225.  Aurora  Floyd.     By  M.  E.  Braddon 75 

226.  Barrington.    By  Lever 75 

227.  Sylvia's  Lovers.    By  Mrs.  Gaskell 75 


A  First  Friendship $0  50 

A  Dark  Night's  Work.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell 50 

Countess  Gisela.     By  E.  Marlitt 55 

St.  Wave's 76 

A  J'oint  of  Honor 50 

Live  it  Down.     By  Jeaffreson 1  00 

Martin  Pole.     By  Saunders W) 

Mary  Lyndsay.     By  Lady  Emily  1'onsonby. . .      60 

Eleanor's  Victory.     By  M.  E.  liraddon 75 

Rachel  Ray.     By  Trollope 50 

John  Marchmont's  Legacy.     By  M.  E.  Brad 
don 75 


229. 
230. 
231. 
232. 
233. 
234. 
235. 
236. 
237. 
238. 

239. 
240. 
241. 
242. 
243. 
244. 
245. 
246. 
247. 
248. 
249. 
250. 
251. 
252. 
253. 
254. 
255. 
256. 
257. 
258. 

259. 
260. 
261. 
262. 

2G3. 
264. 
265. 
266. 
267. 
26S. 
269. 
270. 

271. 
272. 
273. 
274. 
275. 
276. 
277. 
278. 
279. 

280. 
281. 
282. 
283. 
284. 
285. 
286. 
287. 
288. 
289. 
290. 
291. 
292. 
293. 
294. 
295. 
296. 
297. 
298. 
299. 
300. 
301. 

302. 
303. 

304. 
305. 
306. 
307. 
308. 


309. 
310. 
311. 


Annia  Warleigh's  Fortunes.     By  Holme  Lee. .  75 

The  Wife's  Evidence.     By  Wills 60 

Barbara's  History.     By  Amelia  B.  Edwards. . .  75 

Cousin  Phillis.     By  Mrs.  Gackell 25 

What  will  he  do  with  It  f    By  Bulwer 1  50 

The  Ladder  of  Life.     By  Amelia  B.  Edwards. .  50 

Denis  Duval.     By  Thackeray 50 

Maurice  Dering.     By  Geo.  Lawrence 60 

Margaret  Denzil's  History 75 

Quite  Alone.     By  George  Augustus  Sala 75 

Mattie :  a  Stray 75 

My  Brother's  Wife.     By  Amelia  B.  Edwards. .  50 

Uncle  Silas.     By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu 75 

Lovel  the  Widower.     By  Thttckeray 2C 

Miss  Mackenzie.     By  Anthony  Trollope 50 

On  Guard.     By  Annie  Thomas 60 

Theo  Leigh.     By  Annie  Thomas 50 

Denis  Donne.     By  Annie  Thomas 50 

Belial 60 

Carry's  Confession.     By  the  Author  of  u  Mat- 
tie  :  a  Stray" 75 

Miss  Carew.     By  Amelia  H.  Edwards 50 

Hand  and  Glove.     By  Amelia  B.  Edwards ....  50 

Guy  Deverell.     By  J.  S.  Le  1-anu 60 

Half  a  Million  of  Money.    By  Amelia  B.  Ed 
wards 75 

The  Belton  Estate.     By  Anthony  Trollope 50 

Agnes.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 75 

Walter  Goring.     By  Annie  Thomas 76 

Maxwell  Drewitt.     By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Riddell 75 

The  Toilers  of  the  Sea.     By  Victor  Hugo 75 

Miss  Marjoribanks.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 50 

The  True  History  of  a  Little  Ragamuffin 50 

Gilbert  Rugge.     By  the  Author  of  "  A  First 

Friendship" 1  00 

Sans  Merci.    By  Geo.  Lawrence 50 

Phemie  Keller.     By  M  rs.  J .  1 1 .  Riddell 50 

Land  at  Last.     By  Edmund  Vates 50 

Felix  Holt,  the  Radical.     By  George  Eliot 75 

Bound  to  the  Wheel.    By  John  Saunders 75 

All  in  the  Dark.     By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu 50 

Kissing  the  I!od.     By  Kdmund  Yates 75 

The  Race  for  Wealth.     By  Mra.  J.  II.  Riddell..  75 
Lizzie  Lorton  of  Greyrigg.     By  Mrs.  E.  Lynn 

Linton 78 

The  Beauclercs,  Father  and  Son.     By  Clarke.  50 

Sir  Brooke  Fossbrooke.     By  Charles  Lever  ...  60 

Madonna  Mary.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 80 

Cradock  Nowell.     By  R.  D.  Blackmore 76 

Bernthal.     From  the  German  of  L.  Miihlbach.  80 

Rachel's  Secret 76 

The  Claverings.     By  Anthony  Trollope 60 

The  Village  on  the  Cliff.     By  Miss  Thackeray.  26 

Played  Out     By  Annie  Thomas 75 

Black  Sheep.    By  Edmund  Yates 60 

Sowing  the  Wind.     By  Mrs.  E.  Lynn  Linton..  50 

Nora  and  Archibald  Lee 50 

Raymond's  Heroine 60 

Mr.  Wynyard's  Ward.     By  Holme  Lee 50 

Alec  Forbes  of  Howglen.    By  Mac  Donald 75 

No  Man's  Friend.     By  F.  W.  Robinson 75 

Called  to  Account.     By  Annie  Thomas 5B 

Caste 60 

The  Curate's  Discipline.     By  Mrs.  Eiloart 58 

Circe.     By  Babington  White 50 

The  Tenants  of  Malory.     By  J.  S.  Le  Fann 60 

Carlyon's  Year.     By  the  Author  of  "Lost  Sir 

Massingberd,"  &c 25 

The  Waterdale  Neighbors.     By  the  Author  of 

"Paul  Mnssie" 50 

Mabel's  Progress.     By  the  Author  of  "Aunt 

Margaret's  Trouble  " 50 

Guild  Court.     By  George  Mac  Donald 50 

The  Brothers'  Bet.     By  Emilie  Flygare  Carlen  25 

Playing  for  High  Stakes.     By  Annie  Thomas. .  25 

Margaret's  Engagement 50 

One  of  the  Family.     By  the  Author  of  "  Car 
lyon's  Year" 26 

Five  Hundred  Pounds  Reward.     By  a  Barrister  50 

Brownlows.     By  Mr.->.  Olipliant  . . : 38 

Charlotte's  Inheritance.     By  M.  E.  Braddon  . .  60 


Harper's  Library  of  Select  Novels. 


313. 
313. 

315.' 
316. 
H17. 
318. 
iU9. 

321.' 
322. 

323. 
:!24 
325. 
326. 
327. 


329. 
330. 
331. 

332. 
333. 
:j34. 

335. 
336. 
33T. 
338. 

339. 
340. 


Jeanie's  Quiet  Life.     By  the  Author  of  "St. 

Olave's,"  &c $0  50 

Pour  Humanity.    By  F.  W.  Kobinson 50 

Brakespeare.     By  Geo.  Lawreuce 50 

A  Lost  Name.     By  J.  Sheridan  Le  Fanu 50 

Love  or  Marriage  ?    By  William  Bluck 50 

Dead-Sea  Fruit.     By  M.  E.  Braddon 50 

The  Dower  House.     By  Annie  Thomas 50 

The  Brainleighs  of  Bishop's  Folly.     By  Lever.  60 

Mildred.     By  Georgiana  M.  (Jraik 50 

Nature's  Nobleman.     By  the  Author  of  "Ra 
chel's  Secret" 50 

Kathleen.    By  the  Author  of  "  Raymond's  He 
roine" SO 

That  Boy  of  Norcott's.     By  Charles  Lever 25 

In  Silk  Attire.     By  W.  Black 50 

Hetty.     By  Henry  Kingsley. 25 

False  Colors.    By  Annie  Thomas 50 

Meta's  Faith.    By  the  Author  of  "  St.  Olave's."  60 
Found  Dead.     By  the  Author  of  "Carlyou's 

Year" 50 

W  recked  in  Port.     By  Edmund  Yates 50 

The  Minister's  Wife.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 75 

A  Beggar  on  Horseback.     By  the  Author  of 

uCarlyon's  Year" 35 

Kitty.    By  the  Author  of  "  Doctor  Jacob" 50 

Only  Herself.     By  Annie  Thomas 50 

llirell.     By  John  Saunders 50 

Under  Foot.     By  Alton  Clyde 50 

So  Runs  the  World  Away.    By  Mis.  A.C.Steele.  50 

Baffled.     By  Julia  Godilard 75 

Beneath  the  Wheels.    By  the  Author  of  "  Olive 

Varcoe" 50 

Stern  Necessity.     By  F.  \V.  Robinson 50 

Gwendoline's    Harvest.      By   the   Author    of 

''Carlyon's  Year" 25 


341.  Kilmeny.     By  W.  Black $050 

342.  John:   a  Love  Story.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 50 

343.  Ti-ue  to  Herself.     By  F.  W.  Robinson. 60 

344.  Veronica.    By  the  Author  of  "  Aunt  Margaret's 

Trouble" 60 

345.  A  Dangerous  Guest.    By  the  Author  of  "  Gil 

bert  Rugge" 50 

346.  Estelle  Russell 75 

347.  The  Heir  Expectant.    By  the  Author  of  "  Ray 

mond's  Heroine" 50 

34S.  Which  is  the  Heroine? 50 

349.  The  Vivian  Romance.     By  Mortimer  Collins. .  50 

350.  In  Duty  Bound.     Illustrated 50 

351.  The  Warden  and  Barchester  Towers.    In  1  vol. 

By  Anthony  Trollope 75 

352.  From  Thistles— Grapes?    By  Mrs.  Eiloart 60 

353.  A  Siren.     By  T.  Adolphtis  Trollope 50 

354.  Sir   Harry  Hotspur  of  Humblethwaite.     By 

Anthony  Trollope.     Illustrated 60 

355.  Earl's  Dene.     By  R.  E.  Francillon 50 

356.  Daisy  Nichol.     By  Lady  Hardy 60 

357.  Bred  in  the  Bone.     By  the  Author  of  "  Carly 

on's  Year" 50 

358.  Fenton's  Quest.  By  Miss  Braddon.  Illustrated.  50 

359.  Monarch  of  Mincing-Lane.     By  W.  Black.    Il 

lustrated  60 

360.  A  Life's  Assize.     By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Riddell 50 

361.  Anteros.     By  Geo.  Lawrence 50 

362.  Her  Lord  and  Master.    By  Florence  Marryat..  50 
303.  Won — Not  Wooed.     By  the  Author  of  "Carly 
on's  Year" 

364.  For  Lack  of  Gold.    By  Charles  Gibbon 60 

365.  Anne  Fumess.    By  the  Author  of  "Mabel's 

Progress  " 75 

366.  A  Daughter  of  Heth.     By  W.  Black 50 

367.  Durnton  Abbey.     By  T.  A.  Trollope 60 


50 


f&~  Mailing  Notice. — HABFXR  &  BBOTHEKS  will  send  their  Books  by  Mail,  postage  free,  to  any  part  of  the  United 

States,  on  receipt  of  the  Price. 


NOVELS  BY  STANDARD  AUTHORS 

PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER   &   BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 


Harper  &  Brothers  publish,  in  addition  to  others,  including  their  Library  of  Select  Novels, 
the  following  Standard  Works  of  Fiction : 

(For  full  titles,  see  Harper's  Catalogue.) 

BLACKWELL'S  The  Island  Neighbors.    Illustrated. 

Svo,  Paper,  75  cents. 
WILKIE  COLLINS'S"  Armadale.   Illustrations.  Svo, 

Cloth,  $2  00 ;  Paper,  $1  50. 
Man  nnd  Wife.    Illustrations.    Svo,  Cloth,  $1  50; 

Paper,  $1  00. 

Moonstone.  Ill's.  Svo,  Cloth,  $2  00 ;  Paper,  $1  50. 
No  Name.  Ill's.  Svo,  Cloth,  $200;  Paper,  $1  50. 
Woman  in  White.  Illustrations.  Svo,  Cloth,  $2  00 ; 

Paper,  $1  50. 

Queen  of  Hearts.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
BAKER'S  (Wm.)  New  Timothy.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
Inside.     Illustrated  by  Nast.     Svo,  Cloth,  $1  75; 

Paper,  $1  25. 

BOUND  to  John  Company.  Ill's.  Svo,  Paper,  75  cents. 
BRADDON'S  (M.  E.)«  Birds  of  Prey.     Illustrations. 

Svo,  Paper,  75  cents. 
BRONTE  Novels: 

Jane  Eyre.    By  Cnrrer  Bell  (Charlotte  Bront6). 

12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Shirley.    By  Currer  Bell.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
Villette.    By  Currer  Bell.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
The  Professor.  By  Cnrrer  Bell.  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
Tenant  of  Wildfell  Hall.    By  Acton  Bell  (Anna 

Bronte).    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
Wuthering  Heights.   By  Ellis  Bell  (Emily  Bronte). 
12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 


BROOKS'S  Silver  Cord.    Hi's.    Svo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 
Sooner  or  Later.    Illustrations.    Svo,  Cloth,  $200; 

Paper,  $1  50. 

The  Gordian  Knot    Svo,  Paper,  50  cents. 
BULWER'S  (Sir  E.  B.  Lytton)*  My  Novel.    Svo,  Pa 
per,  $1  50 ;  Library  Edition,  2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth, 
$350. 
What  will  He  Do  with  It  ?    Svo,  Paper,  $1  60  ; 

Cloth,  $2  00. 

The  Caxtons.    Svo,  Paper,  75  cents ;  Library  Edi 
tion,  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 
Leila.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 
Godolphin.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
BULWER'S  (Robert— "Owen  Meredith")  The  Ring 

of  Amasis.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

CURTIS'S  (G.  W.)  Trumps.    Ill's.    12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 
DE  FOREST'S  Miss  Ravenel's  Conversion  from  Se 
cession  to  Loyalty.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  60. 
DE  MILLE'S  Cord  and  Creese.    Illustrations.    Svo, 

Cloth.  $1  25 ;  Paper,  75  cents. 
The  Cryptogram.  Illustrations.  Svo,  Cloth,  $2  00 

Paper,  $1~50. 
The  Dodge  Club.   Illustrations.   Svo,  Cloth,  $1 25 ; 

Paper,  75  cents. 
DE  WITT'S  (Madame)  A  French  Country  Family. 

Illustrations.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
Motherless.    Illustrations.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 


For  other  Novels  by  the  same  author,  see  Library  of  Select  Novels. 


Harper's  Standard  Novels. 


CHARLES  READE'S  Terrible  Temptation.  With 
many  Original  Illustrations.  8vo,  Paper,  30 
cents ;  l'2ino,  Cloth,  75  cents. 

Hard  Cash.    Illustrations.    Svo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

Griffith  Gaunt.    Ill's.    Svo,  Paper,  -25  cents. 

It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend.     Svo,  Paper,  35 
cents. 

Love  Me  Little,  Love  Me  Long.     Svo,  Paper,  35 
cents  ;  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Foul  Play.    Svo,  Paper,  -25  cents. 

White  Lies.    Svo,  Paper,  35  cents. 

Peg  Woffiugton  and  Other  Tales.    Svo,  Paper,  50 
cents. 

Put  Yourself  in  His  Place.   Illustrations.   Svo,  Pa 
per,  75  cents:  Cloth,  $1  25;  12mu,  Cloth,  $1  00. 

The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth.    Svo,  Paper,  60  cts. 
EDGE  WORTH'S  Novels.    10  vols.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50 
per  vol. 

Frank.    2  vols.,  ISmo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Harry  and  Lucy.    2  vols.,  12ino,  Cloth,  $3  00. 

Moral  Tales.    2  vols.,  ISmo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Popular  Tales.    2  vols.,  ISmo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Rosamond.    Illustrations.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
EDWARDS'S  (Amelia  B.)*  Debenham's  Vow.    Illus 
trations.    Svo,  Paper,  75  cents. 

ELIOT'S  (George)  Adam  Bede.  Illustrations.  12mo, 
Cloth,  75  cents. 

The  Mill  on  the  Floss.    Ill's.    12mo,  Cloth,  75  cts. 

Felix  Holt,  the  Radical.     Illustrations.     12mo, 
Cloth,  75  cents. 

Romola.    Illustrations.    12tno,  Cloth,  75  cents. 

Scenes  of  Clerical  Life  and  Silas  Marner.    Illus 
trated.    12mo,  Cloth,  75  cents. 
GASKELL'S  (Mrs.)*  Cranford.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 

Moorland  Cottage.    ISmo,  Cloth,  75  ceuta. 

Right  at  Last,  &c.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Wives  and  Daughters.    Illustrations.    Svo,  Cloth, 

$2  00 ;  Paper,  $1  50. 
JAMES'S*  The  Club  Book.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

De  L'Orme.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

The  Gentleman  of  the  Old  School.    12mo,  Cloth, 
$150. 

The  Gipsy.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Henry  of  Guise.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Henry  Masterdon.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

The  Jacquerie.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Morley  Ernstein.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

One  in  a  Thousand.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Philip  Augustus.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Attila.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Corse  de  Lion.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

The  Ancient  Regime.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

The  Man  at  Arms.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Charles  Tyrrel.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

The  Robber.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Richelieu.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

The  Huguenot.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

The  King's  Highway.    12mo,  Cloth.  $1  50. 

The  String  of  Pearls.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 

Mary  of  Burgundy.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Daruley.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

John  Marston  Hall.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

The  Desultory  Man.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  60. 
JEAFPRESON'S*  Isabel.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Not  Dead  Yet.    Svo,  Cloth,  $1  75;  Paper,  $1  25. 
KINGSLEY'S  Alton  Locke.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Yeast :  a  Problem.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  60. 
KINGSLEY'S  (Henry)*  Stretton.    Svo,  Paper,  40  cts. 
LAWRENCE'S  (Geo.  A.)*  Guy  Livingstone.     12mo, 
Cloth,  $1  60. 

Breaking  a  Butterfly.    Svo,  Paper,  35  cents. 
LEE'S  (Holme)*  Kathie  Brande.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Sylvan  Holt's  Daughter.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
LEVER'S*  Lnttrell  of  Arran.    Svo,  Cloth,  $1  50;  Pa 
per,  $1  00. 

Tony  1  utler.    Svo,  Cloth,  $1  50 ;  Paper,  $1  00. 
McCARTIl  r'S*  My  Enemy's  Daughter.    Illustrated. 

Svo,  Paper,  75  cents. 
MELVILLE'S  Mardi.    2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 

Moby-Dick.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

Omoo.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  .Vi. 

Pierre.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Redburn.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  60. 

Ty|;ee.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Whitejacket.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 


MULOCK'S  (Miss}*  A  Brave  Lady.    Illustrated.    Svo, 

Cloth,  $150;  Paper,  $1  00. 
The  Woman's  Kingdom.    Illustrated.    Svo,  Cloth, 

$1  50 ;  Paper,  $1  00. 
A  Life  for  a  Life,    l-'mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
Christian's  Mistake.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
A  Noble  Life.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
John  Halifax,  Gentleman.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
The   Unkind   Word  and   Other  Stories.     l'2mo. 

Cloth,  $1  50. 

Two  Marriages.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  60. 
Olive.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
Ogilvies.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
Head  of  the  Family.    12mo,- Cloth,  $1  60. 
MACDONALD'S*  Annals  of  a  Quiet  Neighborhood. 

12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

MISS  Van  Kortland.    Svo,  Paper,  $1  00. 
MORE'S   (Hannah)   Complete   Works.    1  vol.,  Svo, 

Sheep,  $3  00. 

MY  Daughter  Elinor.  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  75 ;  Paper,  $1  25. 
MY  Husband's  Crime.  Illustrated.  Svo,  Paper,  75  cts. 
OLIPH ANT'S  (Mrs.)*  Chronicles  of  Carliugford.  Svo, 

Cloth,  $1  75 ;  Paper,  $1  25. 
OLIPHANT'S  (Mrs.)*  Last  of  the  Mortimers.    12mo, 

Cloth,  $1  60. 

Laird  of  Norlaw.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
Lucy  Crofton.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
Perpetual  Curate.    Svo,  Cloth,  $1  50 ;  Paper,  $1  00. 
A  Sou  of  the  Soil.    Svo,  Cloth,  $1 60 ;  Paper,  $1  Ou. 
RECOLLECTIONS  of  Eton.    Illustrations.    Svo,  Pa 
per,  50  cents. 
ROBINSON'S  (F.  W.)*  For  Her  Sake.    Illustrations. 

Svo,  Paper,  75  cents. 
Christie's  Faith.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 
SEDGWICK'S  (Miss)  Hope   Leslie.     2  vols.,  12mo, 

Cloth,  $3  00. 

Live  and  Let  Live.    ISmo,  Cloth,  75  cents. 
Married  or  Single?    2  vols.,  12rao,  Cloth,  $3  00. 
Means  and  Ends.    ISmo,  Cloth.  75  cents. 
Poor  Rich  Man  and  Rich  Poor  Man.    ISmo,  Cloth, 

75  cents. 

Stories  for  Young  Persons.    ISmo,  Cloth,  75  cents. 
Tales  of  Glauber  Spa.    12ino,  Cloth,  $1  60. 
Wilton  Harvey  and  Other  Tales.    ISmo,  Cloth, 
75  cents. 

SEDGWICK'S  (Mrs.)  Walter  Thornley.    12mo,  Cloth, 

$150. 
SHERWOOD'S  (Mrs.)  Works.    Illustrations.    10  vols., 

12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50  per  vol. 
Henry  Miluer.    2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 
Lady  of  the  Manor.    4  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $0  00. 
Roxobel.    3  vols.,  ISmo,  Cloth,  $2  25. 
THACKERAY'S  (W.  M.)  Novels: 

Vanity  Fair.    32  Illustrations.    Svo,  Paper,  50  ctg. 
Pendenuis.    179  Illustrations.    Svo,  Paper,  76  cts. 
The  Virginians.    150  Ill's.    Svo,  Paper,  76  cents. 
The  Newcomes.    102  Ill's.    Svo,  Paper,  75  cents. 
The  Adventures  of  Philip.     Portrait  of  Author 

and  04  Illustrations.    Svo,  Paper,  50  cents. 
Henry  Esmond  and  Lovel  the  Widower.    12  Illus 
trations.    Svo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

TOM  BROWN'S  School  Days.    By  an  Old  Boy.    Il 
lustrations.    Svo,  Paper,  50  cents. 
TOM  BROWN  at  Oxford.    Ill's.    Svo,  Paper,  75  cents. 

TROLLOPE'S   (Anthony)*  Bertrams.     12mo,  Cloth, 
$160. 

Can  You  Forgive  Her  f    Svo,  Cloth,  $2  00 ;  Paper, 
$150. 

Castle  Richmond.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Doctor  Thome.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Framley  Parsonaare.    Ill's.    12mo,  Cloth.  ,*1  75. 

He  Knew  He  was  Right.    Svo,  Cloth,  $i  50;   Pa 
per,  $1  00. 

Last  Chronicle  of  Barset.    Svo,  Cloth,  $2  00 ;  Pa 
per,  $1  50. 

Pliineas  Finn.    Svo,  Cloth,  $1  75;  Paper,  $1  26. 

Orley  Farm.   Ill's.   Svo,  Cloth,  $2  00;  Paper,  $1  50. 

Ralph  the  Heir.    Illustrations.    Svo,  Cloth,  $1  75; 
Paper,  $1  25. 

Small  Honse  at  Allington.   III'?.   Svo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Three  Clerks.    I'.'ino,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Vicar  of  Bnllhamptoii.    Illustrations.    Svo,  Cloth, 

$1  75 ;  Paper,  $1  25. 

TKOLLOPE'S  (T.  A.)*  Lindisfarn  Chase.    Svo,  Cloth, 
$2  00 :  Paper,  $1  50. 


*  For  other  Novels  by  the  same  author,  see  Library  of  Select  Sovels. 


THE  DOMESTIC  LIFE 


OF 


THOMAS    JEFFEESON. 

COMPILED  FROM 

FAMILY  LETTERS  AND  REMINISCENCES 

BY   HIS  GKEAT-GKANDDAUGHTER, 

SARAH    N.   RANDOLPH. 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Crown  8vo,  Illuminated  Cloth,  Beveled  Edges,  $2  50. 


This  volume  brings  the  life  of  Jefferson  in  a  brief 
space  within  the  reach  of  all.  While  not  writiug  of 
him  as  of  the  great  man  or  statesman,  Miss  Randolph 
has  given  sufficient  outline  of  the  contemporary  pub 
lic  events,  especially  of  those  in  which  Jefferson  was 
engaged,  to  make  the  history  of  his  times  sufficiently 
clear?  Her  object,  however,  she  says,  has  been  to  give 
a  faithful  picture  of  Jefferson  as  he  was  in  private  life, 
and  for  this  she  was  particularly  well  fitted.  Her  bi 
ography  is  so  arlles«,  so  frank,  and  so  uncolored,  dif 
fering  so  completely  from  the  lives  of  public  men  aa 
generally  written.  *"*  *  This  extremely  interesting  vol 
ume.—  Richmond  Whig. 

One  of  the  most  charming  and  entertaining  of  books, 
and  its  pages  will  be  a  source  of  continual  surprise 
.ind  pleasure  to  those  who,  while  admiring  the  states 
man,  have  had  their  admiration  tempered  by  the  be 
lief  that  he  was  a  demagogue,  a  libertine,  a  gamester, 
and  a  scoffer  at  religion.  The  age  in  which  Jefferson 
lived  was  one  in  which  political  rancors  and  animosi 
ties  existed  with  no  less  bitterness  than  in  our  later 
day,  and  in  which,  moreover,  mutual  abuse  and  malig 
nant  recrimination  were  indulged  in  with  equal  fury 
and  recklessness.  Charges  were  made  against  Jeffer 
son,  by  his  political  opponents,  that  clung  to  his  good 
name  and  sullied  it,  making  it  almost  a  by-word  of 
shame,  and  its  owner  a  man  whose  example  was  to  be 
shunned.  The  prejudices  and  calumnies  then  born 
have  existed  down  to  the  present  day ;  but  the  mists 
of  evil  "report  that  have  hemmed  his  life  and  his  mem 
ory  about  are  now  clearing  away,  and  this  sunny  book 
will  dispel  the  last  shadow  they  have  cast,  and  will 
display  the  maligned  victim  of  party  hate  in  his  tme 
character— as  a  fond,  an  amiable,  and  a  simple-hearted 
father;  a  firm  friend;  a  truly  moral  and  God-fearing 
citizen,  and  one  of  those  few  great  men  who  have  had 
the  rare  fortune  to  be  likewise  good  men. — Boston 
.Saturday  K vetting  Gazette. 

The  author  of  this  charmincr  book  has  had  access  to 
the  best  possible  sources  of  information  concerning 
the  private  character  of  Mr.  Jefferson,  embracing  both 
the  written  testimony  of  his  correspondence  and  the 
<>ral  testimony  of  family  tradition.  From  these  ma 
terials,  guided"  by  a  profound  reverence  for  the  subject, 
the  writer  has  constructed  a  most  interesting  personal 
biography.  ***  A  most  agreeable  addition  to  American 
literature,  and  will  revive  the  memory  of  a  patriot  who 
merits  the  respect  and  gratitude  of  his  countrymen. — 
Philadelphia  Age. 


This  handsome  volume  is  a  valuable  acquisition  to 
American  history.  It  brings  to  the  public  observation 
many  most  interesting  incidents  in  the  life  of  the  third 
President;  and  the  times  and  men  of  the  republic's 
beginnings  are  here  portrayed  in  a  glowing  and  geni 
al  light.  The  author,  in  referring  to  the  death-scenes 
of  Jefferson,  reports  sentiments  from  his  lips  which 
contradict  the  current  opinion  that  the  writer  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  was  an  infidel.  We  are 
glad  to  make  this  record  in  behalf  of  truth.  Young 
people  would  find  this  book  both  entertaining  and 
instructive.  Its  style  is  fresh  and  compact.  Its  pages 
are  full  of  tender  memories.  The  great  man  whose 
career  is  so  charmingly  pictured  belongs  to  ns  all.— 
Methodist  Recorder. 

There  is  no  more  said  of  public  matters  in  it  than  is 
absolutely  necessary  to  make  it  clear  and  intelligible; 
but  we  have  Jefferson,  the  man  and  the  citizen,  the 
husband,  the  father,  the  agriculturist,  and  the  neigh 
bor—the  man,  in  short,  as  he  lived  in  the  eyes  of  his 
relative?,  his  closest  friends,  and  his  most  intimate 
associates.  He  is  the  Virginian  gentleman  at  the  va 
rious  stages  of  his  marvelous  career,  and  comes  home 
to  us  as  a  being  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  so  his  story 
gives  a  series  of  lively  pictures  of  a  manner  of  exist 
ence  that  has  passed  away,  or  that  is  so  passing,  for 
they  are  more  conservative  at  the  South,  socially 
speaking,  than  are  we  at  the  North,  though  they  live 
so  much  nearer  the  sun  than  we  ever  can  live.  *  *  *  We 
can  commend  this  book  to  every  one  who  would  know 
the  main  facts  of  Mr.  Jefferson's  public  career,  and 
those  of  his  private  life.  It  is  the  best  work  respect 
ing  him  that  has  been  published,  and  it  is  not  so  large 
as  to  repel  even  indolent  or  careless  readers.  It  is, 
too,  an  ornamental  volume,  being  not  only  beautifully 
printed  and  bound,  but  well  illustrated.  *  *  *  Every 
American  should  own  the  volume.— Boston  Traveller. 
A  charmingly  compiled  and  written  book,  and  it 
has  to  do  with  one  of  the  very  greatest  men  of  our  nn- 
tional  history.  There  is  scarcely  one  on  the  roll  of 
our  public  men  who  was  possessed  of  more  progress 
ive  individuality,  or  whose  character  will  better  repay 
study,  than  Thomas  Jefferson,  and  this  biography  is  a 
groat  boon.  — A'.  Y.  Kreninn  Mail. 

Rotli  deeply  interesting  and  valuable.    The  author 
has  displayed  great  tact  and  taste  in  the  selection  of 
her  materials  and  its  arrangement.—  Richmond  JJix- 
patch. 
A  charming  book.— Xeiv  Orleans  Times. 


The  Domestic  Life  of  Thomas  Jefferson. 


It  is  a  series  of  delightful  home  pictures,  which  pre 
sent  the  hero  as  he  was  familiarly  known  to  his  fami 
ly  and  his  best  friends,  in  his  fields,  in  his  library,  at 
his  table,  and  on  the  broad  verandah  at  Monticello, 
where  all  the  sweetest  flavors  of  his  social  nature  were 
diffused.  His  descendant  does  not  conceal  the  fact 
that  she  is  proud  of  her  great  progenitor ;  but  she  is 
ingenious,  and  leaves  his  private  letters  mostly  to 
speak  for  themselves.  It  has  been  thought  that  "  a 
king  is  never  a  hero  to  his  valet,"  and  the  proverb  has 
been  considered  undeniable ;  but  this  volume  shows 
that  Jefferson,  if  not  exactly  the  "  hero  "  to  whom  a 
little  obscurity  is  so  essential,  was  at  least  warmly 
loved  and  enthusiastically  esteemed  and  admired  by 
those  who  knew  him  best.  The  letters  in  this  volume 
are  full  of  interest,  for  they  are  chiefly  published  for 
the  first  time  now.  They  show  a  conscientious  gen 
tleman,  not  at  all  given  to  personal  indulgences,  quick 
in  both  anger  and  forgiveness,  the  greatest  American 
student  of  his  time,  excepting  the  cold-blooded  Ham 
ilton,  absolutely  without  formality,  but  particular  and 
exacting  in  the  extreme— just  the  man  who  carried 
his  wife  to  the  White  House  on  the  pillion  of  his  gray 
mare,  and  showed  a  British  ambassador  the  door  for  au 
offense  against  good-breeding. — Chicago  Evening  Post, 

The  reader  will  recognize  the  calm  and  philosophic 
yet  earnest  spirit  of  the  thinker,  with  the  tenderness 
and  playful  amiability  of  the  father  and  friend.  The 
letters  can  not  but  shed  a  favorable  light  on  the  char 
acter  of  perhaps  the  best-abused  man  of  his  time.— 
.V.  Y.  Evening  Post. 

No  attempt  is  made  in  this  volume  to  present  its 
subject  as  a  public  man  or  as  a  statesman.  It  is  sim 
ply  sought  to  picture  him  as  living  in  the  midst  of  his 
domestic  circle.  And  this  it  is  which  will  invest  the 
book  with  interest  for  all  classes  of  readers,  for  all 
who,  whatever  their  politics,  can  appreciate  the  beauty 
of  a  pure,  loving  life.  *  *  *  It  is  written  in  an  easy, 
agreeable  style,  by  a  most  loving  hand,  and,  perhaps, 
better  than  any  other  biography  extant,  makes  the 
reader  acquainted  with  the  real  character  of  a  man 
whose  public  career  has  furnished  material  for  BO 
much  book-making. — Philadelphia  Inquirer. 

The  perusal  of  this  interesting  volume  confirms  the 
impression  that  whatever  criticisms  may  be  brought 
to  bear  upon  the  official  career  of  Mr.  Jefferson,  or  his 
influence  upon  the  politics  of  this  country,  there  was 
a  peculiar  charm  in  all  the  relations  of  his  personal 
and  social  life.  In  spite  of  the  strength  of  his  con 
victions,  which  he  certainly  often  expressed  with  an 
energy  amounting  to  vehemence,  he  was  a  man  of  rare 
sunniness  of  temperament  and  sweetness  of  disposi 
tion.  He  had  qualities  which  called  forth  the  love  of 
his  friends  no  less  than  the  hatred  of  his  opponents. 
His  most  familiar  acquaintance  cherished  the  most 
ardent  admiration  of  his  character.  His  virtues  in  the 
circle  of  home  won  the  applause  even  of  his  public 
adversaries. — A".  Y.  Tribune. 

It  lifts  up  the  curtain  of  his  private  life,  and  by  nu 
merous  letters  to  his  family  allows  us  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  his  real  nature  and  character.  Many  interesting 
reminiscences  have  been  collected  by  the  author  and 
are  presented  to  the  reader.— Boston  Commercial  Bul 
letin. 

These  letters  show  him  to  have  been  a  loving  hus 
band,  a  tender  father,  and  a  hospitable  gentleman.— 
Presbyterian. 

Jefferson  was  not  only  eloquent  in  state  papers,  but 
he  was  full  of  point  and  clearness  amounting  to  wit 
in  his  minor  correspondence. — Albany  Arrjus. 

It  is  the  record  of  the  life  of  one  of  the  most  ex 
traordinary  men  of  any  age  or  country.— Richmond 
Inquirer. 


With  the  public  life  of  Thomas  Jefferson  the  public 
is  familiar,  as  without  it  no  adequate  knowledge  is 
possible  of  the  history  of  Virginia  or  of  the  United 
States.  Its  guiding  principles  and  great  events,  as 
likewise  its  smallest  details,  have  long  been  before  the 
world  in  the  "Jefferson  Papers,"  and  in  the  laborious 
history  of  Randall.  But  to  a  full  appreciation  of  the 
politician,  the  statesman,  the  publicist,  and  the  think 
er,  there  was  still  wanting  some  complete  and  correct 
knowledge  of  the  man  and  his  daily  life  amidst  his 
family.  This  want  Miss  Randolph  has  endeavored 
most  successfully  to  supply.  As  scarcely  one  of  the 
founders  of  the  republic  had  warmer  friends,  or  ex 
erted  a  deeper  and  a  wider  influence  upon  the  country, 
so  scarcely  one  encountered  more  bitter  animosity  or 
had  to  live  down  slander  more  envenomed.  Truth 
conquered  in  the  end,  and  the  foul  rumors,  engendered  I 
in  partisan  conflicts,  against  the  private  life  of  Jeffer 
son  have  long  shrunk  into  silence  in  the  light  of  hi.- 
fame.  Nevertheless,  it  is  well  done  of  his  descendant 
thus  to  place  before  the  world  his  life  as  in  his  letters 
and  his  conversation  it  appeared  from  day  to  day  to 
those  nearest  and  dearest  to  him.  Nor  is  it  a  matter 
of  small  value  to  bring  to  our  sight  the  interior  life  of 
our  ancestors  as  it  is  delineated  in  the  letters  of  Jef 
ferson,  touching  incidently  on  all  the  subjects  of  dress, 
food,  manners,  amusements,  expenditures,  occupa 
tions — in  brief,  neglecting  nothing  of  what  the  men 
of  those  days  were  and  thought  and  did.  It  is  of  such 
materials  that  consist  the  pictures  of  history  whose 
gaunt  outlines  of  battles,  sieges,  corouations,  dethrone 
ments,  and  parliaments  are  of  little  worth  without  the 
living  and  breathing  details  of  everyday  existence.  *  *  * 
The  anthor  has  happily  performed  her  task,  never  ob 
truding  her  own  presence  upon  the  reader,  careful  only 
to  come  forward  when  necessary  to  explain  some 
doubtful  point  or  to  connect  the  events  of  different 
dates.  She  may  be  congratulated  upon  the  grace  with 
which  she  has  both  written  and  forborne  to  write, 
never  being  beguiled  by  the  vanity  of  authorship  or 
that  too  great  care  which  is  the  besetting  sin  of  bi 
ography. — Petersburg  Daily  Index. 

It  is  a  highly  interesting  book,  not  only  as  a  por 
traiture  of  the  domestic  life  of  Jefferson,  but  as  a  side 
view  of  the  parties  and  politics  of  the  day,  witnessed 
in  our  country  seventy  years  ago.  The  correspond 
ence  of  the  public  characters  at  that  period  will  be 
read  with  special  interest  by  those  who  study  the  ear 
ly  history  of  our  government.—  Richmond  'Christian 
Observer. 

In  the  unrestrained  confidence  of  family  correspond 
ence,  nature  has  always  full  sway,  and  the  revelations 
presented  in  this  book  of  Mr.  Jefferson's  real  temper 
and  opinions,  unrestrained  or  unmodified  by  the  cau 
tion  called  for  in  public  documents,  make  the  work 
not  only  valuable  but  entertaining. — A".  Y.  World. 

The  author  has  done  her  work  with  a  loving  hand, 
and  has  made  a  most  interesting  book.— A".  Y.  Com 
mercial  Advertiser. 

It  gives  a  picture  of  his  private  life,  which  it  pre 
sents  in  a  most  favorable  light,  calculated  to  redeem 
Jefferson's  character  from  many,  if  not  all,  the  asper 
sions  and  slanders  which,  in  common  with  most  pub 
lic  characters,  he  had  to  endure  while  living.— A'ew 
Bedford  Standard. 

The  letters  of  Jefferson  are  models  of  epistolary 
composition— easy,  graceful,  and  simple.— A"«w  Bedford 
Mercury. 

The  book  is  a  very  good  picture  of  the  social  life 
not  only  of  himself  but  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived. 
—Detroit  Post. 

One  of  the  most  charming  memoirs  of  the  day.— 
X.  Y.  Times. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 


THE  TOM   BROWN   BOOKS. 


TOM  BROWN'S  SCHOOL  DAYS. 

By  An  Old  Boy.     New  Edition.     Beautifully  Illustrated  by  Arthur  Hughes 
and  Sydney  Prior  Hall.     Svo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

Nothing  need  be  said  of  the  merits  of  this  acknowl-  Can  be  read  a  dozen  times,  and  each  time  with  tears 

edged  on  all  hands  to  be  one  of  the  very  best  boy's  books  and  laughter  as  genuine  and  impulsive  as  at  the  first. — 

ever  written.     "Tom  Brown"  does  not  reach  the  point  Rochester  Democrat. 

of  ideal  excellence.     He  is  not  a  faultless  boy ;  but  his  Finely   printed,  and    contains    excellent   illustrations, 

boy-faults,  by  the  way  they  are  corrected,  help  him  in  get-  "Tom  Brown  "  is  a  book  which  will  always  be  popular 

ting  on.     The  more  of  such  reading  can  be  furnished  the  with  boys,  and  it  deserves  to  be. —  World  (N.  Y.). 

better.     There  will  never  be  too  much  of  it. — Examitier  For  healthy  reading  it  is  one  book  in  a  thousand.—  A  el 
and  Chronicle.                                                                             \  vance. 


TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

By  the  Author  of  "  Tom  Brown's  School  Days."     New  Edition.     With  Il 
lustrations  by  Sydney  Prior  Hall.     Svo,  Paper,  75  cents. 


A  new  and  very  pretty  edition.    The  illustrations  are 
exceedingly  good,  the  typography  is  clear,  and  the  paper 
white  and  fine.     There  is  no  need  to  say  any  thing  of  the 
literary  merits  of  the  work,  which  has  become  a  kind  of 
classic,  and  which  presents  the  grand  old  Tory  University  , 
to  the  reader  in  all  its  glory  and  fascination. — Evening  \ 
Post. 

A  book  of  which  one  never  wearies. — Presbyterian. 


Fairly  entitled  to  the  rank  and  dignity  of  an  English 
classic.  Plot,  style,  and  truthfulness  are  of  the  soundest 
British  character.  Racy,  idiomatic,  mirror-like,  always 
interesting,  suggesting  thought  on  the  knottiest  social 
and  religious  questions,  now  deeply  moving  by  its  uncon 
scious  pathos,  and  anon  inspiring  uproarious  laughter, 
it  is  a  work  the  world  will  not  willingly  let  die. — Christian 
A  dvocate. 


Both  books,  in  One  Volume,  Sz>0,  Cloth,  $i  50. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  also  publish 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  ETON.     By  an  Etonian. 

With  Illustrations.     Svo,  Paper,  50  cents. 


Sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States,  on  receipt  of  the  price 


TWO  VALUABLE  HOUSEHOLD  BOOKS 

PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 


OTJR 


By  DIO  LEWIS,  A.M.,  M.D. 


ICDITIOHST.      13mo,   Cloth,    $1  5O. 


The  book  not  only  deserves  to  be  read ;  it  mil  be  , 
read,  because  it  is  full  of  interest,  concerning  itself, 
as  it  does,  with  such  matters  as  girls'  boots  and  shoes ; 
how  girls  should  walk;  low  neck  and  short  sleeves; 
outrages  upon  the  body ;  stockings  supporters ;  why 
are  women  so  small?  idleness  among  girls ;  sunshine 
and  health;  a  word  about  baths;  what  yon  should 
eat;  how  to  manage  a  cold;  fat  and  thin  girls,  etc., 
etc. — .V.  Y.  Evening  Post. 

Dr.  Dio  Lewis  has  written  a  sensible  and  lively  book. 
There  is  not  a  dull  page  in  it,  and  scarcely  one  that 
does  not  convey  some  sound  instruction.  We  wish 
the  book  could  enter  thousands  of  our  homes,  fash 
ionable  and  unfashionable ;  for  we  believe  it  contains 
suggestions  and  teaching  of  precisely  the  kiud  that 
"our  girls"  every  where  need.— ^V.  Y.  Indepeiident. 

This  really  important  book. — Christian  Union. 

Written  in  l)r.  Lewis's  free  and  lively  style,  and  is 
full  of  good  ideas,  the  fruit  of  long  study  and  experi 
ence,  told  in  a  sensible,  practical  way  that  commends 
them  to  every  one  who  reads.  The  whole  book  is  ad 
mirably  sensible. — Boston  Post. 

Full  of  practical  and  very  sensible  advice  to  young 
women . — Episcopalian. 

Dr.  Lewis  is  well  known  as  an  acute  observer,  a 
man  of  great  practical  sagacity  in  sanitary  reform,  and 
a  lively  and  brilliant  writer  upon  medical  subjects.— 
.V.  Y.  Observer. 

We  like  it  exceedingly.  It  says  just  what  ought  to 
be  said,  and  that  in  style  colloquial,  short,  sharp,  and 
memorable.— Christian  A  dvocate. 

The  whole  tone  of  the  book  is  pure  and  healthy.— 
Albany  Express. 


Every  page  shows  him  to  be  in  earnest,  and  thorough 
ly  alive  to  the  importance  of  the  subjects  he  diseases. 
He  talks  like  one  who  has  a  solemn  message  to  deliver, 
and  who  deems  the  matter  far  more  essential  tlian  the 
manner.  His  book  is,  therefore,  a  series  of  short,  earn 
est  appeals  against  the  unnatural,  foolish,  and  suicidal 
customs  prevailing  iu  fashionable  society.— Church 
man. 
A  timely  and  most  desirable  book.— Springfield  Union. 

Full  of  spicy,  sharp  things  about  matters  "pertaining 
to  health  ;  full  of  good  advice,  which,  if  people  wonld 
but  take  it,  would  soon  change  the  world  in  some  very 
important  respects ;  not  profound  or  systematic,  but 
still  a  book  with  numberless  good  things  in  it.— Lib 
eral  Christian. 

The  author  writes  with  vigor  and  point,  and  with 
occasional  dry  humor. — Worcester  !^p;!. 

Brimful  of  good,  common-sense  hints  regarding 
dress,  diet,  recreation,  and  other  necessary  things  in 
the  female  economy. — Boston  Journal, 

Dr.  Lewis  talks  very  plainly  and  sensibly,  and  makes 
very  many  important  suggestions.  He  does  not  mince 
matters  at  all,  but  puts  every  thing  in  a  straightfor 
ward  and,  not  seldom,  homely  way,  perspicuous  to  the 
dullest  understanding.  His  style  is  lively  and  read 
able,  and  the  book  is  very  entertaining  as  well  as  in 
structive. — Register,  Salem,  Mass. 

One  of  the  most  popular  of  modern  writers  upon 
health  and  the  means  of  its  preservation.—  Presbyterian 
Banner. 

There  is  hardly  any  thing  that  may  form  a  part  of 
woman's  experience  that  is  not  touched  upon.— Chi 
cago  Journal. 


THE  BAZAR  BOOK  OF  DECOIIUM: 


CARE  OF  THE  PERSON,  MANNERS,  ETIQUETTE,  AND  CEREMONIALS, 

16mo,  Toned  Paper,  Cloth,  Beveled  Edges,  $1  00. 


A  series  of  sensible,  well-written,  and  pleasant  es 
says  oil  the  care  of  the  person,  manners,  etiquette,  and 
ceremonials.  The  title  Bazar  Book  is  taken  from  the 
fact  that  some  of  the  essays  which  make  up  this  vol 
ume  appeared  originally  in  the  columns  of  //arper's 
/iazar.  This  in  itself  is  a  sufficient  recommendation— 
Harper's  Bazar  being  probably  the  only  journalof  fash 
ion  in  the  world  which  has  good  sense  and  enlight 
ened  reason  for  its  guides.  The  "Bazar  Bonk  of 
Decorum"  deserves  every  commendation.—  Independ 
ent. 

A  very  graceful  and  judicious  compendinm  of  the 
laws  of  etiquette,  taking  its  name  from  the  Bazar 
weekly,  which  has  become  an  established  authority 
with  the  ladies  of  America  upon  all  matters  of  taste 
and  refinement. — A".  Y.  Evening  Post. 

It  is,  without  question,  the  very  best  and  most  thor 
ough  work  on  the  subject  which  has  ever  been  pre 
sented  to  the  public.—  Brooklim  Daihi  Times. 

It  would  be  a  good  thing  if  at  least  one  copy  of  this 
book  were  in  every  household  of  the  United  States,  iu 
order  that  all — especially  the  youth  of  both  sexes- 
might  read,  mark,  learn,  and  inwardly  digest  its  wise 
instruction,  pleasantly  conveyed  in  a  scholarly  man 
ner  which  eschews  pedantry.  —Philadelphia  Presn. 


Abounds  in  sensible  suggestions  for  keeping  one's 
person  in  proper  order,  and  for  doing  tltly  and  to  one's 
own  satisfaction  the  thousand  social  duties  that  make 
up  so  large  a  part  of  social  and  domestic  life. — Corre 
spondence  of  Cincinnati  Chronirle. 

Full  of  good  and  sound  common-sense,  and  its  tmg- 
gestions  will  prove  valuable  in  many  a  social  quanda 
ry. — Portland  Transcript. 

A  little  work  embodying  a  multitude  of  useful  hints 
and  suggestions  regarding  the  proper  care  of  the  per 
son  and  the  formation  of  refined  habits  and  manners. 
The  subject  is  treated  with  good  sense  and  good  taste, 
and  is  relieved  from  tedium  by  an  abundance  of  enter 
taining  anecdotes  and  historical  incident.  The  author 
is  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  laws  of  hygiene,  and 
wisely  inculcates  them  while  specifying  the  rules  based 
upon  them  which  regulate  the  civilities  and  cere 
monies  of  social  life. — Evening  Post,  Chicago. 

*  *  *  It  would  be  easy  to  quote  a  hundred  curt,  sharp 
sentences,  full  of  truth  and  force,  and  touching  points 
of  behavior  and  personal  habitude  that  concern  us  all. 
—  Spri  nn  field  llepublican. 

J  i y  for  the  best  book  of  the  kind  of  which  we  have 
any  knowledge. — Chicago  Journal. 

An  eminently  sensible  book.— Liberal  Christian. 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  will  send  either  of  the  above  -works  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  o/  the 
United  States,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


SCIENCE  FOR  THE  YOUNG. 


BY  JACOB   ABBOTT, 


Author  of  "The  Young  Christian  Series,"  "Marco  Paul  Series,"  "Rainbow  and  Lucky  Series,"  "Little 
Learner  Series,"  "Frauconia  Stories,"  Illustrated  Histories,  &c.,  <fcc. 


Few  men  enjoy  a  wider  or  better  earned  popularity  as  a  writer  for  the  young  than  Jacob 
Abbott.  His  series  of  histories,  and  stories  illustrative  of  moral  truths,  have  furnished  amusement 
and  instruction  to  thousands.  He  has  the  knack  of  piquing  and  gratifying  curiosity.  In  the  book 
before  us  he  shows  his  happy  faculty  of  imparting  useful  information  through  the  medium  of  a 
pleasant  narrative,  keeping  alive  the  interest  of  the  young  reader,  and  fixing  in  his  memory  valu 
able  truths. — Mercury,  New  Bedford,  Mass. 

Jacob  Abbott  is  almost  the  only  writer  in  the  English  language  who  knows  how  to  combine 
real  amusement  with  real  instruction  in  such  a  manner  that  the  eager  young  readers  are  quite  as 
much  interested  in  the  useful  knowledge  he  imparts  as  in  the  story  which  he  makes  so  pleasant  a 
medium  of  instruction. — Buffalo  Commercial  Advertiser. 


HEAT: 

Being  Part  I.  of  Science  for  the  Young.  By 
JACOB  ABBOTT.  Copiously  Illustrated.  12mo, 
Illuminated  Cloth,  black  and  gilt,  $1  50. 

Perhaps  that  eminent  and  ancient  gentleman  who 
told  his  young  master  that  there  was  no  royal  road 
to  science  could  admit  that  he  was  mistaken  after  ex 
amining  one  of  the  volumes  of  the  series  "Science  for 
the  Young,"  which  the  Harpers  are  now  bringing  out. 
The  lirst  of  these,  "Heat,"  by  Jacob  Abbott,  while 
bringing  two  or  three  young  travelers  from  a  New 
York  hotel  across  the  ocean  to  Liverpool  in  a  Cunarder, 
makes  them  acquainted  with  most  of  the  leading  scien 
tific  principles  regarding  heat.  The  idea  of  conveying 
scientific  instruction  in  this  manner  is  admirable,  and 
the  method  in  which  the  plan  is  carried  out  is  excellent. 
While  the  youthful  reader  is  skillfully  entrapped  into 
lionising  what  appears  to  be  an  interesting  story,  and 
which  is  really  so,  he  devours  the  substance  and  prin 
cipal  facts  of  many  learned  treatises.  Surely  this  is  a 
royal  road  for  our  young  sovereigns  to  travel  over. — 
Wirrld,  N.  Y. 

It  combines  information  with  amusement,  weav 
ing  in  with  a  story  or  sketch  of  travel  dry  rules  of 
mechanics  or  chemistry  or  philosophy.  Mr.  Abbott 
accomplishes  this  object  very  successfully.  The  story 
is  a  simple  one,  and  the  characters  he  introduces  are 
natural  and  agreeable.  Readers  of  the  volume,  young 
and  old,  will  follow  it  with  unabating  interest,  and  it  can 
not  fail  to  have  the  intended  effect. — Jewish  Messenger. 

It  is  admirably  done.  *  *  *  Having  tried  the  book  with 
children,  and  found  it  absolutely  fascinating,  even  to 
a  bright  boy  of  eight,  who  has  had  no  special  prepa 
ration  for  it,  we  can  speak  with  entire  confidence  of  its 
value.  The  author  has  been  careful  in  his  statements 
of  facts  and  of  natural  laws  to  follow  the  very  best  au 
thorities;  and  on  some  points  of  importance  his  ac 
count  is  more  accurate  and  more  useful  than  that  given 
in  many  works  of  considerable  scientific  pretensions 
written  before  the  true  character  of  heat  as  what  Tyn- 
dall  calls  "a  mode  of  motion"  was  fully  recognized. 
*  *  *  Mr.  Abbott  has,  in  his  "  Heat,"  thrown  a  peculiar 
charm  upon  his  pages,  which  makes  them  at  once  clear 
and  delightful  to  children  who  can  enjoy  a  fairy  tale. 
—.V.  Y.  Evening  I'ost. 

*  *  *  Mr.  Abbott  has  avoided  the  errors  so  common 
with  writers  for  popular  effect,  that  of  slurring  over 
the  difficulties  or  the  subject  through  the  desire  of 
making  it  intelligible  and  attractive  to  unlearned 
readers.  He  never  tampers  with  the  truth  of  science, 
nor  attempts  to  dodge  the  solution  of  a  knotty  prob 
lem  behind  a  cloud  of  plausible  illustrations.  The  nu 
merous  illustrations  which  accompany  every  chapter 
are  of  unquestionable  value  in  the  comprehension  of 
the  text,  and  come  next  to  actual  experiment  as  an  aid 
to  the  reader.— If.  Y.  Tribune. 


LIGHT: 


Being  Part  II.  of  Science  far  the  Young.  By 
JACOB  ABBOTT.  Copiously  Illustrated.  12mo, 
Illuminated  Cloth,  black  and  gilt,  $1  50. 

Treats  of  the  theory  of  "  Light,"  presenting  in  a  pop 
ular  form  the  latest  conclusions  of  chemical  and  optic 
al  science  on  the  subject,  and  elucidating  its  various 
points  of  interest  with  characteristic  clean  e  ;s  and 
force.  Its  simplicity  of  language,  and  the  beauty  and 
appropriateness  of  its  pictorial  illustrations,  make  it  a 
most  attractive  volume  for  young  persons,  while  the 
fullness  and  accuracy  of  the  information  with  which 
it  overflows  commends  it  to  the  attention  of  mature 
readers.— Ar.  Y.  Tribune. 

Like  the  previous  volume,  it  is  in  all  respects  admir 
able.  It  is  a  mystery  to  us  how  Mr.  Abbott  can  so 
simplify  the  most  abstruse  and  difficult  principle?,  in 
which  optics  especially  abounds,  as  to  bring  them  with 
in  the  grasp  of  quite  youthful  readers ;  we  can  only  be 
very  grateful  to  him  "for  the  result.  This  book  is  up 
to  our  latest  knowledge  of  the  wonderful  force  of 
which  it  treats,  and  yet  weaves  all  its  astounding  facts 
into  pleasing  and  readable  narrative  form.  There  are 
few  grown  people,  indeed,  whose  knowledge  will  not 
be  vastly  increased  by  a  perusal  of  this  capital  book. — 
X.  Y.  Evening  Mail. 

Perhaps  there  is  no  American  author  to  whom  our 
young  people  are  under  so  great  a  debt  of  gratitude 
as  to  this  writer.  The  book  before  us,  like  all  its  pre 
decessors  from  the  same  pen,  is  lucid,  simple,  amusing, 
and  instructive.  It  is  well  gotten  up  and  finely  illus 
trated,  and  should  have  a  place  in  the  library  of  every 
family  where  there  are  children.— ^Y.  Y.  Star. 

It  is  the  second  volume  of  a  delightful  series  started 
by  Mr.  Abbott  under  the  title  or  "Science  for  the 
Youn£r,"  in  which  is  detailed  interesting  conversations 
and  experiments,  narratives  of  travel,  and  adventures 
by  the  young  in  pursuit  of  knowledge.  The  science 
of  optics  is  here  so  plainly  and  so  uhtechniciilly  un 
folded  that  many  of  its  most  mysterious  phenomena 
are  rendered  intelligible  at  once.— -Cleveland  Plain 
Dealer. 

It  is  complete,  and  intensely  interesting.  Such  a 
series  must  he  of  great  usefulness.  It  should  be  in 
every  family  library.  The  volume  before  us  is  thor 
ough,  and  succeeds  in  popularizing  the  branch  oC  ?ci- 
ence  and  natural  history  treated,  and,  we  may  add, 
there  is  nothing  more  varied  in  its  phenomena  or  im 
portant  in  its  effects  than  light.— Chicago  Evening 
Journal. 

Any  person,  young  or  old,  who  wishes  to  inform 
himself  in  a  pleasant  way  about  the  spectroscope, 
magic-lantern  cameras,  and  other  optical  instruments, 
and  about  solar,  electric,  calcium,  magnesium,  and  all 
other  kinds  oflight,  will  find  this  book  of  Mr.  Abbott 
both  interesting' and  instructive.— Lutheran  Obsei-ver. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 


Either  of  the  above  works  sent  by  mail,  postage  free,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States, 

on  receipt  of  $1  50. 


By  Anthony  Trollope. 


Anthony  Trollope's  position  grows  more  secure  with  every  new  work  which  comes  from  hi? 
pen.  He  is  one  of  the  most  prolific  of  writers,  yet  his  stories  improve  with  time  instead  of  grow 
ing  weaker,  and  each  is  as  finished  and  as  forcible  as  though  it  were  the  sole  production  of  the 
author.— N.  Y.  Sun. 


RALPH  THE  HEIR.     Engravings.     8vo,  Cloth,  $i  75  ;  Paper,  $i  25. 

SIR  HARRY  HOTSPUR  OF  HUMBLETHWAITE.    Engravings.    8vo, 
Paper,  50  cents. 

THE  VICAR  OF  BULLHAMPTON.     Engravings.    8vo,  Cloth,  $i  75;  Pa 
per,  $i  25. 

THE  B ELTON  ESTATE.    8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

THE  BERTRAMS.     i2mo,  Cloth,  $i  50. 

BROWN,  JONES,  AND  ROBINSON.     Svo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

CAN  YOU  FORGIVE  HER?    Engravings.    8vo,  Cloth,  $2  oo;  Paper,  $i  50. 

CASTLE  RICHMOND.     i2mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

THE  CLAVERINGS.     Engravings.     8vo,  Cloth,  $i  oo;  Paper,  50  cents. 

DOCTOR  THORNE.     121110,  Cloth,  $i  50. 

FRAMLEY  PARSONAGE.     Engravings.     i2mo,  Cloth,  $i  75. 

HE  KNEW  HE   WAS  RIGHT.     Engravings.     8vo,  Cloth,  $i  50;  Paper, 
$i  oo. 

MISS  MACKENZIE.     8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

NORTH  AMERICA.     12010,  Cloth,  $i  50. 

ORLEY  FARM.     Engravings.     8vo,  Cloth,  $2  oo;  Paper,  £i  50. 

PHINEAS  FINN,  the  Irish  Member.   •  Illustrated  by  J.  E.  Millais,  R. A.    8vo, 
Cloth,  $i  75  ;  Pape-r,  $i  25. 

RACHEL  RA  Y.    8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

SMALL  HOUSE  AT  ALLINGTON.     Engravings.     8vo,  Cloth,  $2  oo ;  Pa 
per,  $i  50. 

THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET.    Engravings.   8vo,  Cloth,  $2  oo ; 
Paper,  $i  50. 

THE  THREE  CLERKS.     i2mo,  Cloth,  $i  50. 

THE    WARDEN  and  BARCHESTER    TOWERS.       In  One  Volume. 
8vo,  Paper,  75  cents. 

THE    WEST  INDIES  AND   THE  SPANISH  MAIN.     i2mo,  Cloth, 
$i  50.  

Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

HARPER  £  BROTHERS  will  send  either  of  the  above  works  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any 
fart  of  the  United  States,  on  receipt  of  the  price 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "JOHN  HALIFAX." 


FAIR  FRANCE.     Impressions  of  a  Traveller.     i2mo,  Cloth,  $i  50. 

A  BRAVE  LADY.     Illustrated.     8vo,  Paper,  $i  oo ;  Cloth,  $i  50, 

THE   UNKIND    WORD,  and  Other  Stories,     izmo,  Cloth,  $i  50. 

THE  WOMAN'S  KINGDOM.     A  Love  Story.    Profusely  Illustrated.    8vo> 

Paper,  $i  oo ;  Cloth,  $i  50. 

THE  TWO  MARRIAGES.     12 mo,  Cloth,  $i  50. 
A  NOBLE  LIFE.     i2mo,  Cloth,  $i  50. 
CHRISTIAN'S  MISTAKE.     i2mo,  Cloth,  $i  50. 

JOHN  HALIFAX,  GENTLEMAN.    8vo,  Paper,  75  cents ;  Library  Edition, 

i2mo,  Cloth,  $i  50. 
A  LIFE  FOR  A  LIFE.     8vo,  Paper,  50  cents ;  Library  Edition,  i2mo,  Cloth, 

$i  50- 
A  HERO,  and  Other  Tales.     A  Hero,  Bread  upon  the  Waters,  and  Alice  Lear- 

mont.     I2mo,  Cloth,  $i  25. 

AGATHA'S  HUSBAND.  8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 
A  VILLION,  and  Other  Tales.  8vo,  Paper,  $i  25. 
OLIVE.  8vo,  Paper,  50  cents;  i2mo,  Cloth,  $i  50. 

THE  FAIRY  BOOK.     The  best  popular  Fairy  Stories  selected  and  rendered 
anew.     Engravings.     i2mo,  Cloth,  $i  50. 

THE  HEAD  OF  THE  FAMILY.     8vo,  Paper,  75  cents. 
MISTRESS  AND  MAID.     A  Household  Story.     8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 
NOTHING  NE  W.     Tales.     8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 
THE  OGILVIES.     8vo,  Paper,  50  cents;  i2mo,  Cloth,  $i  50. 

OUR   YEAR.     A  Child's  Book  in  Prose  and  Verse.     Illustrated  by  CLARENCE 
DOBELL.     i6mo,  Cloth,  Gilt  Edges,  $i  oo. 

STUDIES  FROM  LIFE.     i2mo,  Cloth,  Gilt  Edges,  £i  25. 
A  FRENCH  COUNTRY  FAMILY.     Translated  from  the  French  of  Mad 
ame  DE  WITT  (nee  GUIZOT).     Illustrated.     i2mo,  Cloth,  $i  50. 


From  the  North  British  Review. 

MISS   MULOCK'S   NOVELS. 

She  attempts  to  show  how  the  trials,  perplexities,  joys,  sorrows,  labors,  and  successes  of  life  deepen  or  wither  the 
character  according  to  its  inward  bent. 

She  cares  to  teach,  not  how  dishonesty  is  always  plunging  men  into  infinitely  more  complicated  external  difficulties 
than  it  would  in  real  life,  but  how  any  continued  insincerity  gradually  darkens  and  corrupts  the  very  life-springs  of 
the  mind  ;  not  how  all  events  conspire  to  crush  an  unreal  being  who  is  to  be  the  "  example  "  of  the  story,  but  how 
every  event,  adverse  or  fortunate,  tends  to  strengthen  and  expand  a  high  mind,  and  to  break  the  springs  of  a  selfish 
or  merely  weak  and  self-indulgent  nature. 

She  does  not  limit  herself  to  domestic  conversations,  and  the  mere  shock  of  character  on  character  ;  she  includes  a 
large  range  of  events — the  influence  of  worldly  successes  and  failures — the  risks  of  commercial  enterprises— the  power 
of  social  position — in  short,  the  various  elements  of  a  wider  economy  than  that  generally  admitted  into  a  tale. 

She  has  a  true  respect  for  her  work,  and  never  permits  herself  to  "make  books,"  and  yet  she  has  evidently  very 
great  facility  in  making  them. 

There  are  few  writers  who  have  exhibited  a  more  marked  progress,  whether  in  freedom  of  touch  or  in  depth  of  pur 
se,  than  the  authoress  of  "  The  Ogilvies  "  and  "John  Halifax." 


pose 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

ARPER  &  BROTHERS  will  send  the  above  works  by  mail,  postage  paid,  to  any  part  of  tJie  United  States,  ort 

receipt  qf  the  f  rice. 


TENNYSON'S 

COMPLETE 

POETICAL   WORKS. 


POETICAL  WORKS  OF  ALFRED  TENNYSON,  Poet  Laureate.  With 
numerous  Illustrations  and  Three  Characteristic  Portraits.  Forty -fifth 
Thousand.  Including  many  Poems  not  hitherto  contained  in  his  collected 
works.  New  Edition,  containing*  "The  Window;  or,  The  Loves  of  the 
Wrens ;"  with  Music  by  Arthur  Sullivan.  8vo,  Paper,  75  cents  ;  Cloth,  $i  25. 


Tennyson  is,  without  exception,  the  most  popular  of 
living  poets.  Wherever  the  English  language  is  spoken, 
in  America  as  well  as  in  England,  his  name  has  become 
familiar  as  a  household  word,  and  some  volume  of  the 
many  he  has  published  is  to  be  found  in  almost  every 
library.  For  several  years  a  complete  cheap  edition  of 
his  poetical  works  has  been  an  acknowledged  desideratum. 
Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers,  taking  advantage  of  the  con 
clusion  of  the  Arthurian  Poems,  have  now  supplied  this 
want  by  publishing  an  attractive  household  edition  of 
the  Laureate's  poems,  in  one  volume,  clearly  and  hand 
somely  printed,  and  illustrated  with  many  engravings 
after  designs  by  Gustaye  Dore,  Rossetti,  Stanfield,  W. 
H.  Hunt,  and  other  eminent  artists.  The  volume  con 
tains  every  line  the  Laureate  has  ever  published,  including 
the  latest  of  his  productions,  which  complete  the  noble 
cycle  of  Arthurian  legends,  and  raise  them  from  a  frag 
mentary  series  of  exquisite  cabinet  pictures  into  a  mag 
nificent  tragic  epic,  of  which  the  theme  is  the  gradual  de 
thronement  of  Arthur  from  his  spiritual  rule  over  his  order, 
through  the  crime  of  Guinevere  and  Lancelot ;  the  spread 
of  their  infectious  guilt,  till  it  breaks  up  the  oneness  of  the 


realm,  and  the  Order  of  the  Round  Table  is  shattered,  and 
the  ideal  king,  deserted  by  many  of  his  own  knights,  and 
deeply  wounded  in  the  last  great  battle  with  the  traitor  and 
the  heathen,  vanishes  into  the  darkness  of  the  world  be 
yond. 

The  print  is  clear  and  excellent ;  the  paper  is  good  ; 
the  volume  has  illustrations  from  Dore,  Millais,  and  oth 
er  great  artists.  Really,  the  edition  is  a  sort  of  prodigy 
in  its  way. — Independent. 

Those  who  want  a  perfect  and  complete  edition  of  the 
works  of  the  great  English  Poet  Laureate  should  purchase 
the  Harper  edition. —  Troy  Budget. 

A  marvel  of  cheapness. —  The  Christian  Era. 

The  whole  get-up  and  style  of  this  edition  are  admir 
able,  and  we  are  sure  it  w'ill  be  a  welcome  addition  to 
every  book -case,  large  or  small.  But  the  marvelous 
thing  about  it  is  the  price,  which  is  only  one  dollar  for 
the  handsome  cloth  binding.  —  Tribune  (Wilmington, 
Del.). 

A  marvelous  instance  of  blended  beauty  and  cheapness. 
— Charleston  Courier. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &   BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

Sent  by  mail,  .postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-17m-8,'55(B3339s4)444 


THE 


OFCAJ 


1M  ANGELES 


De  Lille   - 
American  baron 


PS 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


